Dribble Drabbles
by iguanablogger
Summary: Of Author and Assassin. Short stories of all Assassins Creed characters  first person stories include yours truly , mostly crack. Will be updated from time to time :
1. Bianca's first kiss

"Bartelomeo?" Ezio called uncertainly, taking another step into the seemingly empty office, "Are you in here?"

The Assassin waited a few moments for a reply, but sighed when none was given. He had seen the overenthusiastic mercenary just yesterday, when he had asked him for his assistance with some new weapon upgrades. Ezio had readily agreed, and they had set a date for the next afternoon; Bartelomeo's office.

But as he continued to wait for an answer to his earlier greetings, his patience began to drain. As an Assassin he didn't have much time to waste. Ezio heaved another sigh and tried again:

"Bartelomeo?" He called, somewhat louder.

Finally, he decided he would have to come back another time. But just as Ezio was about to turn on his heels, something large and blunt connected forcefully with the back of his head, sending him staggering forward into the office. Stars burst before his eyes. It was all the Assassin could do to maintain his balance as he stumbled, the dark features of the small room warping and spinning. Through the growing black splotches in his vision, he managed to grasp the corner of Bartelomeo's desk and turn to face his attacker, struggling for breath.

"Quick, Ezio!" A familiar voice urged, "What's the highest building in Florence?"

The Assassin frowned and tried to resist the all-encompassing urge to pass out as he considered the question.

"_Il Duomo…?_" He gasped before his golden eyes rolled upwards and he finally lost consciousness.

There was a loud thud as Ezio's body hit the floor. Bartelomeo sighed and shook his head, setting Bianca down on the desk beside the Assassin's unmoving body.

"It was a good effort, Bianca," He muttered to the sword lovingly, "But not good enough. It took him far too long to pass out, and he was still clear-headed before he did."

Bartelomeo carelessly lit a few more candles to brighten up the room as he pulled out some large sheaves of paper. After a few moments of adjusting the notes, his gaze fell on Ezio's body in distaste. The mercenary rolled his eyes and bent down, grabbing the younger man and slinging him effortlessly over his shoulder. He quickly deposited the Assassin in one of the chairs by his desk before returning to his weapons and mutterings.


	2. Petruccio's visitor

Petruccio sighed and stared at the ice encrusted window blankly. Now and then a wayward snowflake would drift its way onto the pane and melt from the heat silently. The sick boy blinked sadly, realizing that he had never in his twelve years touched snow. Such sweet beauty he could only glimpse at through a screen, never to hold, never to feel its tingle or mold into shapes like he watched all his classmates do.

Suddenly, he turned, coughing lightly, as he heard a soft knock at his door.

"Petruccio?" He recognized Claudia's voice, "You have a visitor."

"A visitor?" Petruccio said, blinking. Maybe once in a blue moon a classmate would run over a get-well card, but never had he had visitors. "Who?"

"I don't know," His sister admitted from behind the door, "But she says she knows you. She wants to see you."

"Ehm," The young boy gulped, "…_Certo. _Let her in, Claudia."

The door slowly creaked open and light slipped into the room, along with the small shape of a girl. Petruccio could hardly make out the form of his retreating sister as she closed the door, then his attention was drawn to his visitor. He noticed to his own surprise that he recognized her, though a name escaped him. He knew she went to school with him…back went he went to school. Bitterly, he remembered the day his father had finally pulled him from the only socialization he had other than his brothers…who weren't around that often.

"…Petruccio?" She asked hesitantly, approaching his bed and pulling up a chair. She was a sweet little thing, blonde hair with a thin red cap perched loosely on it, wide grey eyes and freckles. "Are you feeling alright?"

"No." he admitted.

There was a short silence, the only sounds slight footsteps and movements from downstairs.

"I'm Cecilia," The girl said quietly. Petruccio turned to her, "I'm twelve years old."

Now of course, he remembered her name. Petruccio smiled weakly and replied: "Nice to see you again, Cecilia."

"Petruccio," She began, "Why are you always sick? Why don't you ever come to school anymore?"

The sickly Auditore considered before answering.

"I don't know," He sighed, "It's just the way it has to be."

"You can't like it very much," She said sadly, "I would hate it if I had to be locked up inside all day."

Petruccio only nodded, his gaze dropping to the covers in his lap.

"But, luckily for you," Cecilia quipped, "I brought something to make it a little less boring for you."

"Hm?" Petruccio frowned, turning in confusion as the girl began to go through a small embroidered bag he had failed to notice she had brought. After a bit of fishing, she yanked out two feathers, both white.

"Feathers?" He asked somewhat anxiously, "…For me?"

Cecilia gave him an odd look, "…Feathers? No, silly, these are quills!"

Understanding slowly dawned on the boy as she proceeded to procure two small sheets of parchment and a jar of ink.

"Cecilia…" Petruccio marveled, "where did you get all these things?" For a child, this amount of stationary would have been quite expensive. And despite her efforts to hide it, Petruccio had noticed in school that Cecilia's family was somewhat tight for money…

"I…er…" Cecilia averted her eyes and brushed a piece of stray hair back under her cap, "I borrowed it from _Padre._ I assume he won't mind."

Petruccio didn't know whether to be appalled or touched.

"But the quills I got myself!" The girl beamed.

"Alright," Petruccio said, smiling and shaking his head, "So, what are we doing?"

"Look," Cecilia handed him a quill and a piece of paper. Then she spread her own piece out on her lap. Carefully, she opened the jar of ink and set it on the small stand next to the bed. Then she dipped the edge of her quill into the ink and began to sprawl little black droplets all over the clean parchment. Petruccio looked on in wonder as a strange sort of pattern began to emerge.

"What are you making?" He asked.

"You'll see soon." She replied distractedly.

He waited a few more minutes, and Cecilia's drawing only grew more and more confusing. It took no shape or form that he recognized- only that it was a piece of parchment speckled with big black blotches.

"Finished." Cecilia finally announced, placing the paper on the bed by Petruccio's hand.

The boy picked it up and stared at it in confusion, tipping it at different angles to see if he had missed something, "What _is _it?"

"It's…" Cecilia inhaled, keeping the breath in and lengthening the sentence. Then she broke into a roll of giggles.

"I don't know!" She laughed, "I just took some ink and put it on paper! It could be anything."

"I don't understand." Petruccio said blankly, handing the paper back. Cecilia rolled her eyes playfully and took it, taking a good look herself.

"See?" She said, pointing to one particularly oval-like blotch, "That one's a butterfly!"

"How do you know?" Petruccio frowned.

"I don't," She replied simply, then went back to focusing intently on the paper, "And that one is…hmmm…An eagle!"

"And what else do you see?" Petruccio asked, amused.

"This one, here," She said, scooting closer to him in order to allow him to view the paper more accurately, "It's a tricky one…I don't know exactly…"

"It's…" Petruccio squinted at the strange, almost 'A' shaped dot, "…It's a boat!" He said laughing.

"There, see!" She said, joining him in his laughter, "Now you're getting it!"

"May I try one, Cecilia?" Petruccio asked shyly, brown and grey eyes connecting.

"_Certa,_" She smiled and patted his shoulder.

Petruccio picked his quill back up and looked at the blank parchment Cecilia had given him earlier. He was about to dip the feather in when there was another rap at his door.

"Cecilia," It was his older brother's voice this time, "I'm taking you home- the weather is getting worse."

"So soon?" Petruccio asked sadly.

She nodded, "Your father is probably worried I'll get stranded here."

"But," He smiled, "That wouldn't be so bad…"

"No, it wouldn't!" Cecilia chuckled, standing up and carefully putting her dirty quill back in her bag. She marched up to the door and opened it slowly. Petruccio could make out Ezio's tall figure blocking the light that poured from the hallway.

"Cecilia?" He called hesitantly. She turned to him, questioning.

"Thank you for coming," he said gently, "It really meant a lot."

She smiled warmly in response, "_Nessun problema._"

Maria sighed worriedly as she pressed her palm against her son's heated skin. Another fever, she mused, another sleepless night. She never stopped thinking about her youngest, and how much he must suffer with his condition.

Slowly, Maria stepped away from Petruccio's sleeping form and noticed an inky feather just a few inches from his right hand. Suspiciously, she plucked it from the bed and set it on the bed stand, where a piece of parchment lay undisturbed. As she put the feather down, curiosity got the best of her and she flipped it over.

Her gaze softened as she looked down on the portrait of a young girl with a cap, a simple dress, and a shining smile.


	3. Armor of Brutus glitch

Footsteps echoed across the empty hallways as the hooded figure made his way down the ancient tunnels. He glanced about warily, the only illumination coming from the dimly glowing torches that lined the path. Finally, he pulled to a halt before the gilted chamber. The Assassin took a moment to appreciate its beauty; the room held an iron cage, elegant in design, and filled with uncountable riches. But the centerpiece of this decoration caused even the most priceless artifact to pale in comparison.

Taking a deep breath, Ezio reached deep into his sash pocket and carefully procured a rusty set of keys. Slowly, he approached the silver seal that welded the cage shut. He traced the tarnished lock with a gloved finger for a moment before bringing the keys up to it. One at a time, he inserted them into the small crevices in the seal, each one rewarding him with a small 'click'.

When the last key was removed, the silver item fell in two, unlocking the doors with a solemn 'clang'. The Assassino stepped back in alarm, but then turned his attention to the now accessible treasure room. Circular vessels of gold, shimmering silver trays and chests, pure jade statuettes- none of these fortunes interested the already wealthy noble. No, it was the object uplifted on the stand at the edge of the treasury that held his gaze.

Clearly the centerpiece of the entire collection, the armor set glinted in the only shaft of sunlight gracing the room. Ezio couldn't help but admire its sturdy frame as he approached it, finally ready to accept it upon himself. He silently removed the thin armors covering his Assassin robes and quickly pulled on the famed Armor of Brutus.

Pulling down the crimson hood over his eyes, he absently grabbed at a wide silver plate, lifting it to his face. Ezio watched his grinning reflection with a satisfied spirit. After months of tracking the followers of Romulus, he had finally secured the last of the keys and had received his just reward…

Still smirking, the Assassino smoothened the blood-red cape to his side and prepared to set off for Isola Tiberina. He couldn't wait to see Machiavelli's face…

[xxxxxxx]

"So?" Ezio asked, spreading his arms and grinning as he entered the empty meeting room, "What do you think?"

He remarked Machiavelli's impressed expression smugly, but the advisor quickly shook his head.

"I don't know, Ezio," He said quietly, "It seems rather…excessive."

"So?" Ezio repeated, leaning casually against the table Machiavelli was currently seated at.

"As an Assassin," his friend continued, "You must become one with the crowd. Invisible to all who seek you out. With this…this…" the author seemed lost for words, and instead picked at one of the limp pelts that hung from Ezio's armor daintily.

"Outfit." Ezio finished, with a slight eye roll. "And I take it you do not approve."

"I did not say that." Machiavelli replied calmly.

"But you meant it," Ezio said, sighing as he picked himself up and slowly trudged across the room, "_Va bene. _I'll take it off for now."

"Ezio, I didn't mean-" Machiavelli began irritably, but was silenced by _Il Mentore_'s wave of the hand.

"It's fine, _amico," _Ezio's tired drawl floated through the room, "I'm just going to rest a bit now, I think."

The younger Assassin nodded silently and watched his friend until his enlarged form lumbered around the corner. Then, he returned to the maps splayed out across the table, tapping his finger on the wooden surface distractedly.

[xxxxxxx]

Ezio grunted as he carefully strapped the now-removed armor to its stand. As he adjusted the wolf-pelts that lined its shoulders, he could only marvel at the item's weight. He had expected it to be heavy, but…This impossibly large set of armor made even Papal guards' golden suits look feather-light.

Giving the treasure one last pat, Ezio turned on his bare feet and walked slowly over to his bed, where he collapsed. The tired Assassin sighed in pure pleasure as the mattress softened around him, caressing him with its fine silk covers. He scooted a little further up, allowing his head to rest gently on a pillow and gazed up at the dark ceiling until he felt his lids growing too heavy to hold up…

[xxxxxxx]

It was hours before _Il Mentore _re-opened his eyes, moaning quietly as he awoke. It seemed he had only drifted off moments ago, but the orange glow wafting from his window suggested otherwise. Rubbing his drooping eyes, Ezio reasoned that it was probably time to get back to work.

However when he sat up he found himself in quite a predicament. Instead of looking down to see his messy under-tunic and black leggings, he wore a very heavy scarlet robe. His hands were both gloved, and in disbelief his noted the pelts hanging at his shoulders.

"_Che cazzo…?_" He whispered, immediately standing and rushing to the armor pedestal. The Armor of Brutus no longer hung there- instead it was on his own body!

"I…I must have fallen asleep with it on." Ezio reasoned weakly, "But…I could've sworn I removed it…"

For a moment the Assassin merely stood there, frowning in utter perplexity. Then, with a shrug, he simply decided it was an honest mistake. Memory blockage and all that- everyone gets it now and then. He proceeded to remove the cumbersome Roman armor and replaced it on its rack. Then he slid into his boots, pulled on his usual master Assassin robes, and silently approached the door.

He opened it and stepped through to the quiet halls of the Isola Tiberina hideout. The only sound were a pair of light footsteps moving closer to his location, and Ezio found himself moving to greet them. He was only a little surprised to see Machiavelli round the corner.

"Ah, you are awake,_ Mentore,_" The advisor said, nodding, "I was about to go get you myself; Claudia is here and…" Machiavelli paused, drifting off in midsentence as he stared at the older man with a puzzled expression.

"What?" Ezio finally gave in, frowning.

"Ezio," Machiavelli said, "I thought you were going to take off that ridiculous costume."

"…What costume?" Ezio asked, eyebrows raised.

"The Armor of Brutus, of course." Machiavelli explained, now sending _Il Mentore _a questioning glance.

Ezio was about to respond that he wasn't wearing it when…with panicked eyes, he searched his body again to find that he was indeed still wearing the Armor of Brutus.

"_Merda!" _Ezio exclaimed, swallowing. He ran his hands over himself briefly, just to make sure what he was seeing was not an illusion.

"…Is something wrong, Ezio?" Machiavelli asked, moving a step closer to the panic-stricken Assassin.

"I…" Ezio began faintly. Now he was beginning to suspect something was wrong. He clearly remembered getting dressed in his Assassin robes- and there was no way he could've changed between the time he left his room and the time he met Machiavelli. It was impossible. It had to be!

"Yes?" His friend continued, concern growing in his voice.

Ezio gulped again and shook his head, turning back to his room, "…It's nothing, Machiavelli. I'm fine."

"You are sure?" Machiavelli took a step to follow, but Ezio held up his hand.

"Yes." He replied shakily and quickly entered his room.

Somewhat fearfully, Ezio removed the Armor of Brutus and swiftly set it back in its place. He was shocked to find his Assassin robes sitting on his bed, but took them nevertheless and slung them back on. Was this what it felt like to go insane? He wondered. Or perhaps he was losing his memory? He shuddered at the thought. An Assassin with a broken memory was hardly useful.

Taking a deep breath, Ezio closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reopened them and examined himself. Yes, he was still wearing his Assassin robes. He heaved an enormous sigh of relief and patted the comforting white material lovingly.

Certain that his strange ordeal was at an end, Ezio exited his room for the second time and headed to the meeting chamber to meet with his sister.

[xxxxxxx]

"Is he awake yet?" Claudia's sharp remark was the first thing to greet the _maestro _as he rounded the corner.

"I am here, _sorella cara._" He said dryly as he approached his Assassin/Bordello Madonna of a sister.

"Finally," She huffed, rolling her eyes, "I've been waiting for hours."

"Of course you have." Ezio muttered as he took a seat at the table, waiting for Claudia to begin her report.

"I've had my girls gather information from all over the district," she began, moving to sit across from her brother, "and they have done a good job, but-"

She stopped speakings, eyeing Ezio suspiciously.

Upon seeing this, _Il Mentore _immediately paled and for the first time that year- he prayed.

_Please, _he whispered fiercely inside his own head, _Please, please, PLEASE don't say it-_

"What on Earth are you wearing, _Fratello?_" Claudia asked quietly, frowning, "A bear?"

Ezio moaned pitifully and banged his head on the table. What was this cursed armor?


	4. Broken nose

Federico considered himself a wholesome gentleman.

Yes, at the tender age of eleven, he believed he was a man of quite balanced principles. He took care of his younger siblings (a job that required impeccable skill), he listened to his mother, he honored his father, and he _never _went anywhere he was forbidden.

Well, almost never.

But if one were to accuse Federico of disobeying his parents' strict rules on purpose, he would very strongly disagree. He was not trotting warily through a beaten, filthy alleyway, throwing frightened glances around every corner because he _wanted to. _Quite the opposite in fact- he was only doing so because there was something much larger at stake here. His own dignity to be exact, and Federico was not going to be one to back out of a dare. And he would never even _consider _backing out of a dare if it happened to be bestowed upon him by Vieri de'Pazzi.

Federico scowled as the memory crossed his mind, still making his way carefully down the rotting path. The arrogant thirteen-year-old had stepped over the line, picking on a child so much younger than himself. When the ginger-tinted Auditore had discovered the boy grasping his younger brother by the arm, why- his blood nearly boiled. He had been drawn to the scene by Ezio's indignant squeals. Apparently, Vieri had wanted something the other had been in position to release. Money, service, who knew- but Federico had no choice but to aid his little brother.

But Vieri had been so disappointed when Federico had declared himself 'not up for a fight'. Deeming him a coward, Vieri's eyes had glinted dangerously as he challenged the younger boy to a duel.

What was to be done? He couldn't very well decline in front of Ezio. And that brought the determined eleven-year-old back to the foggy, stinky present. After safely returning Ezio to the Palazzo Auditore, Federico had made it his first destination.

The small courtyard appeared even more intimidating under the current circumstances. Puddles from last night's storm littered the area and caused a thick fog to roll through, masking the owner of the approaching footsteps. Being in such a poor neighborhood, the once pleasant palazzo had deteriorated into something much more sinister- the hanging garden now a lopsided heap of rust and shrubbery, the elegant marble walls now cracked and ensnared with thorny weeds.

Federico inhaled steadily as he pulled to a halt at the center of the small square. Tension whirled through his body, and he clenched his fists in an effort to control it. Being a gentleman of great stature, he had not been in many fights. The few he had been in had been easily conquered with a bit of help from his friends- now absent. Yes, he had agreed to meet Vieri alone. And it appeared he was a man of his word. He only hoped Vieri would be the same…

"Auditore!" The sudden outburst caused the boy's head to snap up, spinning in alarm. He quickly corrected himself as a large amount of footsteps approached him from all sides. Federico gulped- it didn't take a genius to figure out that Vieri had brought company.

"You came!" The arrogant voice continued, pleased, "I admit, I had quite a few doubts back at the Palazzo Della Signoria…"

"I thought you said this was a duel, Pazzi," Federico replied calmly, "One on one. I see our definitions do not match up."

"Indeed," Though Federico could not see his face, he could imagine the smirk splayed across his lips, "I believe you misunderstood my terms, Auditore. Ah, there is so much about the fine art of dueling that your pathetic mind does not understand…"

"I understand well enough," Federico snapped, hazel eyes narrowing, "you intend to cheat. To be expected, I suppose, given your heritage."

There was silence on the other end, Federico observed triumphantly. One set of footsteps approached him loudly, and he knew whom they belonged to. Finally emerging from the thick fog, Federico took in Vieri's angered appearance cautiously.

"You accuse me of cheating?" Vieri snarled, looking down on the shorter boy with contempt.

"I do," Federico grinned, swallowing his fear with difficulty, "But I'll forgive you."

"How generous of you," Vieri gritted, "And why the change of heart?"

"Because it will not be enough to save you."

Vieri felt his temperature rising and his fists clenched in anger. Something about the Auditore just made his blood boil. Just a mention of the smug, successful family made him want to hit something.

Federico noticed the distress he was causing slyly and proceeded:

"Know what, Vieri?" He said gently, taking care to use his opponent's first name, "I'll give you a handicap. Hit me."

"Wh-what?" Vieri sputtered, eyes widening, "You think _I _need the handicap?"

"I insist!" Federico said giddily, not certain what he was doing, but enjoying manipulating the older boy all the same. "Hit me!"

"Why you stupid, arrogant, _pezzo di-" _

Vieri was unable to finish the sentence as Federico's fist came flying at him, landing right between his bugging black eyes.

"Hm, too slow!" Federico said as the other child staggered back, crying out.

It was all he had time to say before the Pazzi came back with a vengeance. The blows came slowly, but had an awful amount of power behind them. Federico narrowly dodged the first set, as Vieri appeared nearly blind with rage.

"Stay still, brat!" He cried, lobbing his fists at the nimble Auditore desperately.

"_No grazie!" _Federico replied breathlessly.

Unfortunately for our young ginger-tinted friend, the momentum of the fight had pressed him back, and it wasn't long before he found himself pushed against the wall of the brick alley.

Federico gasped as his back came in contact with the cold stone, and Vieri grinned broadly, an evil glimmer in his eye.

"Nowhere to run, Auditore," Vieri whispered, "Your end has come."

Federico was about to make a snappy comeback when Vieri's fist un-expectantly hit its mark, right between the younger child's hazel eyes.

There was a snap as the bones in Federico's nose-bridge broke, the Pazzi's gloved fingers driving right through his skin. The force of impact smacked the back of his head against the wall, and for a few moments Federico stared wide-eyed into inky darkness.

Blood spilled from his nose as he slid down the wall, utterly dazed. Vieri grinned and prepared to pummel the living daylights out of his opponent when-

"What's going on back here?" The adult voice startled the boy, and he gasped. Vieri turned to watch as a figure penetrated the fog and approached him quickly. Black eyes widening, he observed the man in horror- as he happened to wear the Auditore coat of arms on his robe.

"Vieri de'Pazzi?" Giovanni Auditore squinted down at the petrified child, who still had his foot posed to dig into Federico's stomach. "May I kindly ask what the _HELL _you are doing to my son?"

Vieri found himself speechless as his face was drained of whatever blood was left. He gulped and his mind raced for something to say back to the enraged father, but his mouth was dry as parchment.

"F-father?" Federico croaked, spitting blood on the pavement in an effort to speak. The amount of red flowing from his nose was disturbing, and the disfigured shape of it brought a concerned frown to Giovanni's features.

Giovanni turned his gaze back on Vieri with enough malice to shatter him.

"Leave." He said simply, "Leave my son alone. And I don't _ever _want to see you touch him again. Is that clear?"

"Yes, _messere._" Vieri whispered, nodding. The towering figure of Giovanni Auditore watched him as he turned tail and fled as fast as his shaky legs could carry him.

"You should've let me handle him, _padre,_" Federico coughed, sitting up and wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve.

"I don't think so, _bambino._" Giovanni growled, "And what did he do to your nose?"

"Uh…" Federico gulped, instantly regretted the metallic taste on his throat. He winced as his father prodded the broken appendage hesitantly, sighing.

"It's broken, Federico," He said, "And badly, too."

"How did you know where to find me, _padre?" _Federico asked suddenly, frowning.

His father smiled, "Ezio."

"Ezio?" Federico repeated, confused, "But…I didn't tell him anything."

"Don't look at me," Giovanni shook his head, "Come on, we'd better clean you up. Your mother will faint if she sees you covered with blood."

0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0_0

"Federico?" The Auditore was pulled out of his trance by the soft voice of the girl curled beside him on the supple mattress, "I've always been meaning to ask you…"

"What is it, _cara?" _he murmured gently in her ear, running a hand through her silk hair.

"What happened to your nose?" She said the question in such a seductive voice Federico didn't even notice how blunt it was. "Why is there a scar?"

"It's a long story, _bella mia,_" He sighed, running a hand over her stomach as he pulled her body closer to his own. "Suffice it to say…it was a matter of dignity, honor, and perfect timing."


	5. Interrupted

_AN- this is a true story! :)_

As they walked calmly, Vitero noticed that she was indeed a very pretty woman.

"Well?" She asked teasingly, her grey eyes sparkling with laughter, "Don't just stand there, say something!"

He chuckled lightly and averted his gaze, "I'm thinking!"

Minerva smiled and placed her hands comfortably on her hips as the two continued their stroll. "You spend an awfully long time thinking, Vitero. Nothing ever gets done."

Vitero would've responded, but his vocabulary seemed to be fizzing out. The sun slowly dipped lower on the horizon as the librarians walked down the Roman street. Red orange light ran through the roads thick as molasses and swallowed them. Although it was not entirely unpleasant- Vitero noted how the dying sunlight brought out the brighter streaks in her soft hair. The hair he just wanted to run his hand through and-

"Vitero?" Minerva was frowning at him, concerned, "Are you alright? Why are you staring at me?"

"Oh!" The redheaded scholar blushed and fiddled uselessly with his hands in his lap, "_Mi despiaci, amica. _I was just…thinking about something."

Minerva nodded slowly, and then smiled. She tugged lightly on his hand, pulling them both to a stop on the side of the dusty road. He allowed himself to stare into her face, but heat crept into his. Still embarrassed, he attempted to distract his green eyes with something other than the woman before him.

"Vitero, look at me." He winced at the firmness in her tone. Reluctantly, he obeyed her. She still smiled, showing off the row of small, pearly teeth that made him sigh. Minerva carefully grasped his sweaty palms in hers and took a step closer.

"What's gotten into you?" She whispered, "You haven't been yourself all week. I think even the books have noticed something's wrong."

"It's nothing, Minerva," he stammered. At the girl's questioning gaze, he decided to give it a go. Vitero took a deep breath and continued: "It's just…I've always wanted to tell you that I-"

"GET HIM!" The sharp exclamation broke the two librarians like glass and their heads whirled towards the commotion. Further up the street, they spied a tall man in white, barreling towards them at full throttle.

Vitero's eyes widened considerably when he noticed Minerva was right in the man's path.

"Vitero, what's-?" Was all she said before shrieking as the mysterious stranger plowed her over, shoving the couple from each other's company.

However Minerva managed to regain her balance and did not fall, only stumbled backwards, farther from Vitero's grasp.

"Minerva, are you-?" He tried to approach her, but what seemed to be the entire papal army intercepted him. The sheer volume of the soldiers tossed the librarians aside as they stampeded down the street in pursuit of the white-robed man.

Finally, when the shock waves subsided and the road was quiet once more, Vitero pulled himself up and looked around for his partner. After a moment, his eyes found her still lying in the dirty street, brown hair sprawled on the smooth stones and her long legs resting as they had fallen-

Her legs.

Vitero's jaw dropped and he could already feel his body temperature rising to the point he was sure he would erupt. He quickly slapped his hands over his eyes, as that was what his mother had taught him to do when he saw a woman uncovered. But the image was already burned into his mind- Minerva's skirt had been completely blown backward, revealing her calves all the way to her pale thighs.

"Vitero!" He heard her call, along with some scuffling noises. She appeared to be dragging herself up.

"What are you doing?" He still had his face covered, but not because he knew she was exposed- he did not want her seeing the shade of his cheeks at the moment. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he mumbled, "…Not physically, at least…"

"_Imbecili,_" She huffed, flipping a loose strand of hair back where it belonged. "I can't believe they'd just run people down in the street like that. What if someone had been injured?"

Vitero did not trust himself to speak, so he said nothing.

"Anyway, you wanted to tell me something?" Minerva asked hopefully, looking up to him with an encouraging grin.

The librarian opened his mouth to speak, but when he saw her face- the image of her shapely legs flashed in his mind, and his jaw clamped shut.

"Yes?"

"Nothing…" He muttered brokenly and turned away, shuffling back down the street.


	6. Bureau spitting

The temperature in the bureau was, for once, bearable. Inside the tiny cavity, two men sat at a counter, busily scratching away at parchment with sharpened quills. While both were tall, one man was obscured by a large white hood. Why one would wear such a hood indoors was just one of those unasked questions, but it didn't seem to bother him at all. The man had remarkable golden eyes, which were at the moment busy narrowing in concentration. His scarred lip was pulled into a grimace as he stared at his scrap of parchment intensely. The inky, sprawled letters had nothing to say to him, as it seemed. And so he returned to writing.

Across from him was the other man- who seemed much more relaxed. On his uncovered head sat an endearing tuft of black hair, somewhat matted from large amounts of time spent indoors. His chocolaty brown eyes were focused on his own piece of paper, but his quill graced it lightly, not at all rushed or anxious. The hand that guided it, his only remaining, judging from the fold of his left sleeve, was completely calm.

Several serene minutes passed like this, the only sound a child's laugh from outside, or the braying of a donkey. Other than that, the bureau bathed in silence. Finally, the hooded man dropped his pen and sat up, exhaling. Sensing the same, the bureau leader neatly replaced his own writing instrument and straightened his pose.

Gold and brown eyes connected. Altair said quietly:

"_Ata mukhan?" _(are you ready?)

Malik nodded.

"_Tikfotz oti._" (bring it on)

Altair cleared his throat with a cough, bringing his maimed left hand to his mouth, and grasping his parchment with the right. He then proceeded to read:

"It must be nice, hiding in the bureau all day while real men do the work. I don't blame the Master for his refusal to see a coward like you."

Malik smiled. He then pulled up his own paper and read:

"You remind me of a dog- always yapping with absolutely nothing interesting to say."

Altair eyed him dangerously, but slowly read from his own parchment:

"Your skepticism has gone to the point where children burst into tears at the sight of you."

Malik nodded, admiring the insult. Then he announced his own:

"I had a book I wanted to offer, as it might've helped you improve your technique. However, I wouldn't want to strain your one and only brain cell."

Altair responded curtly, his eyes never leaving the sheet:

"I see your personality has festered as much as your arm."

Malik looked up, shooting him a harsh glare. He waited several long moments before drawing his eyes back to his paper, slowly reading:

"Were you born stupid, or was it something you perfected through a lifetime of practice?"

Altair replied with a different insult, golden gaze now further down the sheath than it was originally.

"I must commend you, brother. I have never met an Assassin capable of causing a thunderstorm above Jerusalem, and certainly not in the summer."

Malik answered:

"I can kill you with my awesome."

Altair dropped his paper onto the counter and glared at Malik angrily, "How is that even an insult?"

"It's hardly an insult," Malik shrugged, "I'm merely stating an obvious observation. Although apparently it got you mad, so it's acceptable."

Altair grumbled incoherently before dragging the paper back into his reading-sight.

"I would like nothing more than to sharper my blade on your tongue- but unfortunately, I can't seem to get my hand past your nose."

"I thought about you yesterday- how much pain you must be suffering, having lost everything- your honor, position, even the Master's favor. And then I laughed."

"Your insolence knows no bounds, not unlike your chamber pot."

"Novice."

"Malik, stop it." Altair said sharply, interrupting the match by slapping his parchment on the table in order to give the other Assassin an accusing stare.

"What?" He asked innocently.

"Stop sabotaging this operation!" Altair continued, aggravated, "We were each supposed to write out complete insults in fifteen minutes. COMPLETE insults! No nicknaming, no side-barring, no snapping!"

"Jerk." Malik said simply.

"Idiot."

"Buffoon."

"Wastrel."

"Cunt!"

"Whore!"

"Bastard!"

"Assassin!"

"Templar!"

"Novice!"

"Weasel!"

"Coward!"

"Ruffian!"

The match was finally pulled to a close when the local crusader patrol kindly knocked on the Bureau entrance, and requested the two lower their voices.


	7. Best friends

The villa was unusually quiet that day, the only sound coming from the rustling of leaves between somber trees. The messenger glanced around nervously as he climbed the elegant steps, the large building glaring at him. The ground was littered with flower petals, carried across the spring breeze from far away.

He took a deep breath and continued. The tall wooden doors of the Villa Auditore stood before him, and he knocked politely. The messenger was surprised when an elderly woman greeted him, dressed quite elegantly. He had expected a servant.

"I have a letter for _Messer _Auditore," He explained, procuring the small envelope from his bag. The woman eyed it, taking in the foreign stamp on its front.

"I will take it," She replied, extending an aged hand. At first he was reluctant, but she eased him with the words: "I am his sister."

He nodded and turned the letter over to her. He bowed nobly to the lady and then she calmly shut the door.

Claudia sighed heavily, flipping the letter in her grasp. She tiredly made her way into the next room- the room she had spent twenty years of her life working in- and sat down at the desk to read. She'd had an odd feeling about the document the moment her hand touched it, and she knew her brother wouldn't mind.

The silver-haired woman gingerly took a seat and opened the foreign mail. Her brown eyes skimmed the lengthy introductions, all in French, and proceeded to the body of the letter. She continued to read nonchalantly until finding one specific phrase that seemed to throw her off. Her eyes widened and her grip weakened. For a few moments she sat in shock, before gently setting the letter back on her desk. Then, she picked herself up and headed for the study just down the hall. Ezio had to know.

She knocked before entering- something she never did. His low voice vibrated his approval through the empty house.

Claudia could see from a first glance that her brother was not facing her. Ezio stood, form slightly hunched from the burden of many years, gazing at the bookshelf emptily. He had awoken with a strange feeling this morning, but he wiped all traces of worry from his face as he turned to face his sister with a smile.

However, his expression dropped when he saw her ashen face.

"Claudia…?" He asked, frowning.

"Ezio," She said softly, "Sit down."

The retired Assassin sent her a questioning look, but took a seat at his uncle's old desk. He waited for her to approach, which she did slowly.

"Claudia, what is it?" He asked soberly, "You look terrible…"

Claudia sighed heavily. How could she say it? Despite their youthful antics, she knew she and her sibling were both far along in age. Next month Ezio would hit sixty years old. They both knew this was coming…but now…

She tried to say it- her mouth opened but shut just as quickly when nothing came to mind. Claudia looked at him for a long time. Ezio was no longer the young man with the broad grin and mischievous twinkle. His soft brown hair had been replaced with silver locks, his full beard now a testament to his age. His eyes kept their golden hue, but now wore a fine pair of wrinkles.

"Claudia…" He said, his strong voice now weak and gritty, "…Tell me. What is it?"

"A letter," She began, "just arrived from _Francia…_"

"_Francia?" _Ezio repeated, thinking. He smiled, "From Leonardo, you mean?"

Claudia couldn't look him in the eye. Her gaze hit the floor as she replied, "No, Ezio. Not from Leonardo."

Something clicked. She didn't want to, but she saw it anyway. Ezio's smile vanished, his eyes went wide and she could almost see his heart drop into his stomach. His whole body went rigid and he straightened immediately.

"No…" He whispered.

Claudia had never had a best friend. The friends she'd had in her short social life had only been interested in her father's fame. She'd never experienced that telepathic bond that some friends have been known to have- that ability to finish each other's sentences or jokes. To always know when something is wrong with the other, and know how to phrase it. Whatever that bond had been, she knew her brother and the painter had it.

He looked up at her frantically, "Claudia, say it isn't true. Say it." She couldn't look at him. Ezio was desperate, grief already seeping into his weakened body.

Tears welled in her eyes as she said the words that would break his heart:

"_Messer _da Vinci passed away in his sleep last night, Ezio. In the palace, in _Francia._"

He froze. At first it seemed he did not comprehend. She opened her mouth, about to comfort him, but he spoke first.

"Please leave me." He requested quietly.

She stood for a moment, but then quickly nodded and left the room. Claudia went from the study to the main hallway, and took a seat on the steps. Slowly, after a few moments of sharp silence, she began to hear something. It was a curious sound, something she had only heard a handful of times her entire life. The elderly woman strained her ears, paying close attention to the unfamiliar noise. Claudia's heart softened when she finally deduced the meaning.

Ezio was sobbing.


	8. Passing time

It's morning. We get our first glimpse of you, touring the city with a hand on your nose. I think it is amusing, but I don't tell anyone. You stop at a pawn shop, and your friend picks out a ragdoll. We strike while you are distracted- I snatch the purse from your waist with a jingle. As I'm running away, you yell at me to stop. You call me a clumsy jerk, and I turn around to face you with a wary glare. That is the first time we lay eyes on each other. It is only a moment before I turn again, running after my peers, and you realize the mistake you've made.

It's noon. Water and pain are everywhere, and I can hardly think. Ugo is rowing as quickly as his sore muscles allow him, but Dante is not moving at all. As the boat lurches into the hideout, I catch a glimpse of your robe flapping in the wind. Only a glimpse. But I know you were watching us the whole way.

The gondola pulls to a stop, but I can't move. Ugo is checking on Dante, trying to stir his motionless corpse. I snap at him to stop wasting time and get Antonio, and he grudgingly obeys. My leg spurts blood when I try to stand, and I cry out in pain. Ugo pauses, and then begins to drag me painfully from the boat. Suddenly, you are there, urging him to be careful. You tell him to go get Antonio, and that you will take care of me.

I hear Ugo curse in exasperation, but his hands drop from my arms. His footsteps become muffled as he jogs quickly up the steps. You approach me, uncertain at first, but then swiftly as my elbows give way beneath me and I fall. You catch me. Your voice is the only thing I hear as my vision fails me and my body flows like water.

Everything is blurry. You call for Antonio and the sound startles me. I feel something hard beneath me, and I whisper a question to you as you gentle release me. You give me assurance, you tell me Antonio is here and it'll be over soon. You are one of the only people in my life I feel truly grateful to.

Painfully, I sit up and watch Antonio as he bursts into the courtyard, demanding to know what had happened to me. The guild swims when I speak, and I cannot project my voice to the correct volume. I want the arrow out, and I want it out NOW. Tears of fright and pain well in my eyes when Antonio takes my chin in his fingers and tells me it will be done. Large, iron hands grip me and force me back on the table as hell devours my leg. I feel as though large knives are ripping at me, and I cry out bitterly. The raw agony restores my consciousness, and instead of fatigue I am filled with fury. I scream at Antonio when he tries to comfort me, but all you do is smile. Bianca tells me to relax, but you are the biggest question on my mind while I lay on the table, allowing myself to be doctored.

It's midnoon, months later. Rain plagues the city and makes it difficult to snatch any coin, but I sit at the table and run my fingers through the few pouches I'd managed to grab. The guild is still, calmed by the tapping of the rain on the ceiling. Seta is much nicer than the old guild, but I miss the nooks and crannies of that place. The secrets, the loose boards.

I don't hear you come in, but you've always been like that. With your scar-stretching grin, you take a seat beside me. You ask me how I remember my profits, if I always make so much. I tell you I memorize them. You wonder why I don't write them down.

You are shocked to discover I cannot write.

I blush and look away, angry and embarrassed. But you don't laugh for long. Instead, you bring me a feather, ink, and parchment, and inform me that you are now my teacher. I laugh bitterly at you, and inform you I don't need one. You insist, and I relent.

You smile at me and pull off the damp glove on your right hand. You dip the feather in ink and begin to draw letters on the page. Two loops become an 'E', three loops and a swirl become a 'z', then you drag your hand quickly to form an 'i' and 'o'. The movement is so graceful; I am envious. You offer me the quill and an encouraging grin. But I shake my head- I will never write as well. You are undeterred.

Gently, you take my hand in yours. I am surprised, but I do not fight back. You place my palm on your right hand, and firm it there. You look at me, not with your devilish smirk, not with your mischievous eyes- but with a true desire to make me understand. I nod, and you begin to write.

The ink is paint on a canvas. I watch intently, and distantly my fingers tighten around yours when the quill draws a large 'R'. Slowly, your move it down and circle an 'o'. You make sure my grip is solid before placing the 's', and then the 'a'. The moment stretches as you put the feather back on the table, looking back at me. I look into your golden eyes, then back at my name on paper. It is beautiful, I admit. You are pleased.

You leave the room, but I stay. Antonio finds me asleep with my expression blank and the paper filled with one name.

It's evening. I watch you worriedly as you pull on your hood and straighten out your appearance. You are about to climb out the window and leave me, but I pull on your arm. I tell you to be careful, because I suspect you won't be. You relax and draw me closer. Scarred lips graze my cheek and you smile when you tell me that everything will be fine.

You always say that. It isn't always fine.

Hours later, I am pacing. You should've been back, and you aren't. In the outer courtyard I hear Ugo yelling. When he suddenly yells your name, I freeze. A moment later I am flying down the steps, my stomach turning to lead. Ugo is calling for help and supporting you with his shoulder. My eyes widen and the blood leaves my face as quickly as it is leaving the hole in your chest.

I run to Ugo and take your other arm, but your will to move is ebbing. Soon you are merely dead weight, and I am demanding more aid from my fellows. It takes three of us to move you to Bianca's study, where I am able to get a good look at you. Bianca orders everyone out, but she decides to let me stay. I am thankful and confused, but soon I wish she'd have driven me away too.

You are hardly breathing. Blood stains your hands and sleeves, and your robe is devastated. Bianca requests my help removing your clothing, and when I unbutton your shirt your wound become obvious. You have been stabbed in the back, and you tried to take care of it yourself. You tried to stuff the wound with pieces of fabric, strips of clothing. All of it is ruined, dyed a sickening red. Bianca effortlessly strips them and begins to wash you off. I ask her how I can help- she shakes her head and tells me to make sure you are still alive.

Shaken, I nod and move up the table to where your head lays. You look up at me with eyes of glass, cloudy and unseeing. Bruises line your face, and your pale lips begin to move. I cannot hear you.

I sit silently while Bianca works. For most of the time, your eyes are closed, but sometimes they will open. Sometimes, I will almost hear you say my name.

Bianca prepares to leave, and tells me you should rest. I wait for the door to shut before I let my tears fall. The salt drops wet your face and I collapse on you, crying. I curse you, I hate you. You lied to me, you lied. This is your fault.

Time passes and you recover. But it will never be fine again.

It's sunset. I watch the spectacle from my window, and though I have not seen you in a year, I think of you. Antonio says you have been in Rome. Someday I would like to visit Rome, but I do not enjoy travelling. As I watch the colors die, I wonder when you will return. Sadly, I wonder if you remember me. I know you are a busy man. I know about the Apple and the wonders it performs. The golden ball scares me, and although it interests Antonio to no end, I do not wish to hear about it.

Ugo laughs at me. He is standing beside me on the balcony and looking off into the distance. He calls me a fool for still believing in you. He says that I am almost as stupid as he is for being in love with me. I suppose that makes us equal. Over the years, Ugo has given up trying. He knows he will never have me.

Will I ever have you?

It's an hour before midnight. I am reading the note you gave me earlier, when you first returned to Venice. You said you would meet me at midnight, and that I should prepare. My green eyes drift to the stand in my room, amused. On it stands an old bottle of wine, the only bottle I've ever really owned. I've been saving it for some time, but I realize that if I don't open it soon, I never will. And I don't know when you'll be in Venice again.

And I've missed you.

I am wearing my night clothes- silk pants, pilfered from a man with far too many pairs, and a top that cut a little low. But it was comfortable, so why did I care? Despite all my scoffing and eye-rolling, I am nervous. It's been a while since I saw you last. My dark hair is longer now- it falls around my shoulders in a clumpy wave. I have tried to tame it, but it appears to have a mind of its own. But this once, I try a little harder.

You appear in my room, ten minutes before midnight. As usual, I don't hear you come in. But it doesn't matter- I know in an instant that you haven't changed any. I walk up to you and inspect your jaw line, where an interesting experiment is being conducted. I cock an eyebrow and ask you what you think you're trying to pull with all this facial hair. You laugh easily, a sound I haven't heard in a long time. We engage in conversation as I open the wine and pour us both a glass.

An hour later we are in bed. You are making love to me, with your tongue in my ear and my lips on your neck, moaning your name. Hands slide up and down my hips, making me sigh. You kiss me, caress me, press yourself against me. Your voice whispers that you love me. But I am afraid of you.

When you wake in the morning, I am gone. You are confused, and so am I. I can't decide whether or not to accept you. Either way, I suspect there was no chance we would've woken together that morning. I could've slept late, and woken to an empty bed. Instead, I struck first.

I have considered asking for advice, but I do not believe that would solve much. In the end, this problem is yours and mine alone. I want to be with you, and you want to be with me. But for that to happen, we will have to make sacrifices. Different from the ones we've been making all our lives. Love cannot be stolen, and it cannot be killed. That puts us both at a disadvantage.

But if you're willing, I'm willing.


	9. Horse devil

Ezio frowned, pulling his hood further over his eyes. Judging by the position of the light on the horizon, he only had a few more hours before dawn. The Master Assassin bit his lip at the image of his friend the general, pacing up and down the dirt road fretfully as he worried about the fate of his wife. A fate that rested in Ezio's hands alone at the moment.

Tossing his cape self-consciously over his shoulder, Ezio slid off the white stallion and edged closer to the French encampment. If he remained silent and agile, he could easily slip past the foreign soldiers and continue on to the broken aqueduct, where a large amount of spare French armor awaited him. However, a peek around the palisade walls revealed that the blue-colored soldiers were no where near relaxed that night. Each Frenchman's beady eyes were set in determination, and their weapons were gripped tightly. The Assassin shook his head- this would not be easy.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Ezio hugged the wall and took a few steps to the left. A shout from a traveler sounded loudly behind him, and Ezio paled as a French soldier stuck his head from the battlements in surprise. He needn't have worried- a moment later the man withdrew himself, muttering in his own language.

The Assassin smiled lightly and continued shuffling around the encampment. He was making nice progress when he was suddenly halted by muffled footsteps behind him. Ezio's golden eyes widened and he whirled around immediately, hidden blades unsheathed.

"_Neigh!" _The horse gave a short whinny, and Ezio did everything he could to keep himself quiet as the animal proceeded to slop him over. His faithful white stallion had followed him every step and appeared to be eyeing him quite friendily. However the sound attracted a few unwanted French ears, and Ezio quickly led the horse away before it could get him in more trouble.

He pulled it around the corner, closer to a tree. There he dropped the reigns and patted the horse on its velvet nose. Ezio lined his eyes with the animal's and spoke firmly:

"No," He said, "YOU stay HERE."

The horse looked at him with innocent brown eyes.

Ezio grinned widely, as if speaking with a child. He pointed to the horse's nose, then pointed to the ground. Then nodded. The horse nodded as well, apparently satisfied.

Glad that the problem was at an end, Ezio turned around and returned to the task at hand; sneaking past the French. The Master Assassin arrived just in time to see a patrol grouping reentering the camp. It appeared they had come to investigate the noise and footsteps, but had found nothing solid.

Ezio inhaled deeply to steady his nerves and dropped to a crouch. Again, he slowly shambled perpendicularly to the wooden gates, determined on making it to the other side unnoticed.

His stomach dropped into his boots when he heard a large amount of footsteps behind him. Perhaps the patrol was making another round? It only took one pair of French eyes to ruin the entire operation!

Hoping he could act quickly enough, Ezio sprang to his feet and launched himself at his assailants, blades extended and seeking flesh.

The horse grunted oddly as he collided with it, and the Assassin rebounded smoothly off the heavily padded muscles of the animal's chest. Ezio rubbed the back of his head in irritation as his behind thudded onto the ground.

"_Qui est la!" _Ezio's dim understanding of the foreign language told him this was not a good thing to hear a French guard yell, and he and the horse quickly fled the scene.

Frustration shadowing his good intentions, he returned the horse to the tree and secured its reigns to a sturdy branch. He then took the horse firmly by its jaw and glared into its thick brown eyes.

"No," He scolded simply, "You cannot come with me. Stop following me."

The horse nickered softly and pawed at the grass. Ezio sighed hopelessly, patting its nose with his ungloved hand.

"_I,_" He put extremely heavy emphasis on the 'I', "am going over THERE." He pointed to the French camp.

"_YOU,_" He put equally heavy emphasis on the 'you', "Are staying HERE. Capisco?"

It whinnied and looked down at the silly white-robed man fondly. Barberio had seen many interesting humans in his time, but this one fascinated him. Instead of whipping, yelling, or anything of the sort, this strange looking man was trying to actually communicate with him. But none of this was what compelled Barberio to pester him- oh, not at all. It was a very simple fact, really.

The hooded man had a nice, juicy piece of hay clinging to his shoulder. It was just hanging there, like a stalk of wheat, waiting to be slurped up by something. In honesty, Barberio had tried to get at it earlier, but the man had pushed him away too soon. He didn't care what protests the hooded-one had, Barberio was not leaving without that piece of hay in his mouth.

Ezio took another deep breath, satisfied that this time the horse would not be able to break free of his confinement. The Assassin pulled his hood down further and with a humph, turned his back and marched to where the French waited. Using much less caution than he had been seen with previously, Ezio sneaked past the first palisade wall. He ducked when a break between the walls formed a window, and moved forward on his elbows.

He didn't hear the footsteps this time. But he felt them when a hoof pressed itself into his prone behind. Ezio winced at first, but then scowled as he rose to his feet and snatched the reigns from the neighing animal.

"Look," He growled, "I have neither the time nor patience for this little game! Stop bothering me or there will be consequences!"

The Master Assassin found it increasingly difficult to believe he was threatening a horse. However he didn't have much time to think about it before he was interrupted by a gasp to his right. Ezio's eyes widened and his skin paled as he realized he was standing directly in the French line of sight.

"_C'est l'Assassin!" _A hoarse soldier wheezed. Ezio turned his head slowly in bewilderment, finally noticing the Frenchman who gaped at him like a fish.

"_Et il parle a un cheval!" _He continued, raising a shaking finger to point at Ezio in pure terror. The Italian stood still as a statue as three more French soldiers emerged, gawking at him. Silence wafted between them, until it was broken by more dimly understood exclamations:

"_Il est de meche avec le diable!"_

_ "Il va tous nous tuer!" _

_ "COURIR POUR VOTRE VIE!" _

Ezio continued to watch in amazement as several of the French soldiers began to scream, and others ran point-blank for the exit. There was a clatter as weapons fell to the ground, and the camp was emptied in a matter of seconds.

For several moments afterward, Ezio merely stood there, still clutching the horse's reigns. He blinked a few times. While he had, once upon a time, spoken French fluently, it now took him half an hour to come up with one French sentence. He had grasped one or two words that the soldiers had babbled, but he couldn't figure how any of them would result in instant chaos.

With impressed golden eyes, he turned to the horse and patted it gingerly on its head.

"Good horse," He said, "Nice horse."

The horse responded by thoughtfully licking his shoulder.

_French translations: Qui est la- who's there? _

_C'est l'assassin- it's the Assassin!_

_Et il parle a un cheval- and he's talking to a horse!_

_Il est de meche avec le diable!- he's in league with the devil!_

_Il va tous nous tuer- he'll kill us all!_

_Courir pour votre vie- Run for your lives! _


	10. Night boating

Ezio hated being captured. He really, really hated it.

He'd actually been keeping up a rather good streak lately. With the exception of one sloppy move a year back in San Marco (during which he'd escaped with two new fans and an interesting story), he'd been pretty much untouchable. Nobody went after the infamous Assassin, despite bountiful promises of reward from the church for his apprehension.

And yet here he lay, bound, gagged, and partially seasick, with nothing to do but wonder what had gone wrong.

The Auditore cringed, trying to free his mind from the drug's hazy grip. It was still night and he was still on a boat, as evidenced by the sloshing of water and the tipping of the flat surface he sat quite uncomfortably on. He remembered speaking with Antonio, something about bribery and blackmail and turncoat thieves… Yes, that's right. He was eliminating Templar spies from the thieves guild. He'd already managed to take down two, very cleanly… The third was tricky.

Ezio remembered following him out over the water in the dead of night. The traitor appeared to have purchased safe haven with a group of thugs on a boat that they owned, that had just pulled into port. However the barge cut itself off and headed for open waters just as Ezio arrived, and he was forced to follow it on a gondola, hoping to catch it before they wandered too far from Venice.

They'd never seen him coming…They couldn't have, with it being a cloudy night and the waters being so turbulent. The only reason Ezio was keeping pace was due to the golden glow a single man on the boat possessed. He could tell they were getting suspicious of the noise he made, so when his gondola rowed close enough, Ezio dove under the water and swam the last few feet to the boat's edge. Grasping an iron ring near its barnacled surface, Ezio scaled the ship and pulled himself onto the deck, much to the surprise of all six people aboard.

Had he killed the target? Ezio strained his foggy mind. He remembered a scuffle… His thoughts then had been to go after the traitor himself. Surely he had merely hired the thugs- if their employer were killed, they would disband. They couldn't have had any interest in him to begin with, and Ezio had no desire to kill them.

Yes, the memory was slowly rising. He had brutally shoved his blade down the man's throat, ending his shout of alarm. Then he had turned to dive, swimming to his gondola, but something stopped him.

Hands grabbed at his legs before he could complete the jump, and instead of sailing into the air, his head had swung down and smacked itself on the boat's sea-weathered surface. Vision swarmed with stars, Ezio didn't notice himself being yanked back on the deck at first, but once his feet made contact with the slippery floor, his blades jutted from his wrists and he wildly attacked.

But he had been off balance to start with, and was in a cramped area. The Assassin slashed anyone who came too close, and tried to escape again. But once he turned his back on them, the thugs grabbed him, twisting his limbs. He remembered shouting reason at them before a sharp sensation in the back of his neck and then blackness.

And then this.

What WAS this?

Finally, Ezio opened his eyes and looked around. Nobody paid him any heed as he struggled to sit up and spit the long strip of cloth out of his mouth, despite it being tied behind his jaw. Well, not until he succeeded in wetting it enough that it started slipping out on its own, anyway.

"Cease your growling, _Assassino,_" an irritated voice sounded through the darkness, "Pinocchio, remove his gag."

As soon as he felt hands remove the damp constraint, he began to talk.

"Who are you?" Ezio asked flatly, glaring up at his captor.

"Rich, as soon as we reach Florence." The voice replied, and then calmly began to leave, heading for another section of the boat.

Content with apparently being left alone, Ezio twisted his neck and got a glimpse of the water. He'd learn his subjugator's identity and deal with him later. Luckily, Venice was still in sight, but just barely. All that was left of the marvelous city of canals was a few waning lamp posts that lit the pier they had departed from. And even that was shrinking alarmingly fast.

The Assassin made a split-second decision. It was now or never. Swiftly rising to his bound feet, he used what was left of his balance to leap from the ship, diving into the black ocean.

Moments after doing this, Ezio began to have some doubts. For one thing, his feet and hands were tied with ropes, which he'd sort of failed to notice. For another thing, he found that they did not break easily when he tried to swim forward, meaning that instead of shooting through the sea like a dolphin, as was the usual, he sank like a rock. And with them being so far from port, he had a long way to go to reach the bottom.

It was mostly the slap of the water to his face that brought this sudden appearance of reason. When Ezio had made the decision to jump, he had still been groggy from whatever drug they'd used on him. Now he was clear headed.

Actually, he was getting rather _light-_headed remarkably fast.

Still unable to move neither his arms nor his legs, Ezio found swimming an impossible feat. Sinking slowly towards the black hole of the ocean floor, Ezio finally realized he was going to drown. So he stopped trying to break free of his bindings and simply accepted it. And the moment he did, he felt so much more relaxed…

…Until someone was beating on his chest and he was suddenly vomiting water. Without even opening his eyes, Ezio could tell that he had not drowned. For one thing, the feeling of pressing wetness all over was gone, replaced by his soggy clothes and ruined gunpowder. And for another thing, he was lying on something hard and slippery, and he was surrounded by people.

"…an _idiota,_" the words echoed in his ears as consciousness returned, "If he'd _cut _the ropes then yes, I would have understood it, but really now… It's a complete wonder he hasn't been caught before."

Ezio creaked his eyes open as he was dragged across the boat's floor and propped up against the deck railing. His blurry vision focused into the image two grey orbs boring into his own.

"Oh," Ezio greeted the large brown cat as it commenced sniffing his face, "Hello there." His throat felt salty and rough.

The grey-eyed cat ignored him and began to lick his jaw, slowly moving down. It felt as though someone were sanding his skin, and it wasn't comfortable. However he didn't have any real objections until the cat licked his necklace and suddenly took interest in it.

"Hey," He murmured to the animal as it played with the string of silver, "Don't touch that."

The cat continued to ignore him and took the item in its mouth, yanking at it.

"Hey!" Ezio said louder, alarmed. He tried to swat at the feline but with his hands literally tied behind his back, all he could do was watch as the animal successfully stole his favorite piece of jewelry. It then calmly proceeded to step away from him, necklace in its jaws, and trot down the deck. "Come back here!"

He watched as the animal stopped and was suddenly lifted up by one of the crew members, a female pirate by the look of it.

"Good boy," She praised the necklace-thief by stroking its fur. She took the necklace from the cat and placed it in her pocket before returning the feline to its business of hunting for mice.

The woman approached Ezio and stood to his right, leaning casually on the wood rail.

"Morrone can sniff out valuables a mile away," She explained, not sparing the Assassin a single glance, "He's a very useful cat."

"Morrone?" Ezio repeated, frowning up at her, "Odd name for a cat."

When she responded, she seemed offended, "People name their daughters 'Bianca'. Why can't I name my cat 'Morrone'?"

"Because it's not an accepted name," Ezio told her.

The woman finally turned her head to him, eyes narrowed, "And I'm sure you know all about 'accepted names', _Assassino._ What did you used to be, a banker? A merchant?"

"No," Ezio continued, bored, "I was a born killer. I murdered my first target when I was four years old, using a bloated pig bladder."

"_figlio di puttana insolente,_" She cursed under her breath and slunk away into the darkness.

Great. Now he had scared off his only source of entertainment. Flexing his arms, he noticed he had even greater bindings this time, and when he turned around, Venice was no where in sight.

Mentally, Ezio put together a plan.

Objective a) retrieve necklace.

Objective b) kick cat

Objective c) get girl's name

Objective d) escape.

It seemed like a good plan. Unfortunately, it seemed about as near completion as their journey to Florence. Ezio sighed. He hated getting caught. He really, _really _hated it.


	11. You speak French?

"What about that one?" Federico asked, gesturing to a giggling brunette moving daintily across the street.

Ezio shrugged, giving his older brother a look. "Not my type."

Federico sighed and ground the back of his scalp against the stone in an effort to get comfortable, "You can't say that forever, baby brother."

The Auditore brothers were once again loitering on the busy street corner of the San Giovanni district with too much time to kill. Federico had developed the habit months ago, and after noticing him missing for several evenings Ezio had joined the afflicted. Twice they had been sent home by the Florentine guard, and they'd lost count of how many times they'd been accused of vagrancy.

At nineteen years old, Federico liked to think he knew how to pick 'em. Of course, he didn't always pursue the prettiest girl on the street. Often, as in before Ezio showed up, he chose the shyest girl, or the group of girls who made dirty jokes when they thought no one was listening, the girls who thought themselves 'innocent' in everyone else's eyes.

Sometimes, he let the devil get the better of him and he stalked the young women. In the earliest days, this had just been for fun- how he loved those little terrified eyes and high pitched squeals. The perfect prank. But lately he'd noticed there were others out playing the same game with different rules- namely, Vieri de'Pazzi. Occasionally, the dark haired man could even been seen lurking on the exact same corner the Auditore brothers had blatantly claimed. It soured Federico's mood, to say the least.

However, when Ezio had finally followed him out one night, the elder brother couldn't turn him away. Ezio's sixteenth birthday was coming up in just two and half months, and he was already maturing into quite the looker. Federico knew where his little brother was going when he told Madre that he was just 'delivering a few letters for Father'. He was delivering something alright, paper or not. Yes, Ezio was morphing from a little boy who played with his father's capes to a young man with a sly mouth, and Federico didn't mind the company.

"So, Ezio," He interrupted his own musings with a nudge to his brother's shoulder, "Who will it be tonight?"

Ezio did not reply right away. Instead, he lifted his leather-strapped wrist and pointed at something in the distance, "Federico, who are they?"

Federico raised his hazel eyes and tried to find the object of his little brother's interest. It turned out to be a group of girls wearing dresses of light blue uniform, almost invisible against the dusky light. They were shepherded by a stern, tall woman looking to be in her late forties. She had a crooked nose, a very interesting hat, and held what looked nearly like a riding crop in one hand. She did not look like someone either of the brothers would want to get too close to.

There were ten girls in uniform altogether, and they did not look Florentine. Many of them had light hair, and their complexions were much paler than the Auditore. Suddenly, one girl whispered something to a friend of hers and the two burst out laughing. This drew a surprisingly loud exclamation from the chaperone that was easily heard outside of the city, let alone down the street:

"_Ca suffit!" _The woman almost shrieked, "_Etre tranquille, des filles!" _

The younger females immediately stopped themselves and folded back into formation.

"What?" Ezio turned to his brother in confusion, "I don't understand. What did she say?"

"Ah," Federico marveled, closing his eyes and murmuring, "_De sorte qu'ils sont Francais…"_

"Federico!"

"They're French, baby brother," Federico said as though it were obvious, "They probably don't even speak Italian."

"Then what are they doing here?"

"I couldn't tell you," Federico shrugged, rolling his shoulders against his perch on the wall, "Perhaps they're here for education? To see Verrochio's latest work, maybe."

Federico turned to Ezio hoping to get a glimpse of his opinion, but he received something else instead. He noticed that Ezio's pair of eagle eyes were trained on a certain girl who was dressed in light blue and still whispering. Federico waited a few more moments to make sure, then proceeded:

"You want to talk to her, don't you?" He asked.

"What? No!" Ezio hissed quietly, glaring at his elder, "Who told you that?"

"Ezio, my boy," Federico grinned smugly, "We're the only ones here."

He knew he had won when Ezio's face turned an unnamed shade of red.

"So maybe I do," he admitted, staring at the ground, "But how can I? We can't even speak the same language!"

"Yes you can," Federico revealed sagely, "There is definitely a way that you can…"

"Really?" Ezio's face lit up like a candle.

"Indeed," Federico smiled, "Watch and learn, baby brother."

The younger Auditore watched with baited breath as his brother detached himself from the wall and stretched. He then proceeded to dust himself off and walk directly into the fray.

"_Excusez moi," _He heard Federico say expertly to the Frenchwomen, catching the hawk-like scowl of the shepherd as he did so. Ezio continued to watch in utter bewilderment as Federico spoke fluently, as though he'd known French his whole life. The same girl Ezio had been ogling suddenly came forward and told Federico something while flashing him a suggestive smile. Although the foreign language made it sound as though she were talking backwards, the sound of her voice aroused butterflies in Ezio's stomach.

Finally, with a bow and a few parting words, Federico returned, grinning.

"So?" Ezio was on him like a parasite, "What did they say?"

"Patience, Ezio, patience," Federico chuckled. Oh how he loved having the advantage over people. "I'll tell you back home- and that's really where we ought to be now. Come, Mother will worry."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When Federico had first suggested there was some way he would be able to communicate with the young Frenchwoman, Ezio's heart had fluttered. But when the option actually presented itself, said organ was flopping at the bottom of the ocean.

"Ezio," The eldest Auditore said, shutting the window and turning to his brother with irritation, "This is the fiftieth time I've had you repeat this. Why don't you know it yet?"

"Because it's confusing!" Ezio cried, slamming his head back into his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. There was an interesting brown speck up there that wasn't there yesterday. "I'm no good with languages. I can't do this, Federico!"

"Yes, you can," Federico repeated, mantra-like, "Because if you don't, you won't even be able to convince that girl to take off her shoes, much less her dress."

"God, Federico," Ezio moaned, wriggling a little on his bed, "She is _so _sexy. I love her."

"You know what they say about French…" Federico laughed tiredly and took a seat on his own bed. "The language of love…" he sang.

"I thought Italian was the language of love." Ezio grumbled.

"It is," Federico agreed, leaning back, "But French is the language of _love _and Italian is the language of _sex._"

"What's the difference?" Ezio asked, swinging a foot over the edge of his bed so that he was now spread eagled.

"You'll notice," Federico began, "that the French do share some words us. They just pronounce them differently."

"And add about five more consonants, I know."

"The point is, it's not so hard to learn if you already speak one half of it."

"But the sounds! The gutturals! It's ridiculous! When am I ever going to need to speak French besides now, eh?"

"You never know, baby brother, you never know…"

"…"

"…Federico?"

"Are you ready to continue yet?"

"If Italian is the language of sex, and French is language of love, what does that make Spanish?"

"…"

"…Federico?"

"The language of…Marriage."

"Okay."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It had been two days. Two days of nothing but French. He ate French, he slept French, he breathed French, he smelled French- Federico would not allow Ezio to speak even a letter of Italian. When questioned, the brothers had informed their father that this was part of an assignment given to Ezio by his teacher, Giovanni Tornabuoni. Their had mother had been thrilled that Ezio was taking an interest in foreign culture, even if it was French.

But none of that mattered now. Ezio Auditore was about to have his first conversation, and it was going to go well. It was noon, late March. The sky was overcast, and it didn't seem like a good day for an art exhibition, but nevertheless- the gaggle of French students could be seen entering the Santa Croce auditorium. And that was where the odds caught up with them.

"Alright, Ezio," Federico said quietly, "Are you ready for this?"

"Yes," Ezio nodded, inhaling deeply.

"Are you ready to go in there and charm the pants off that beautiful, sexy French girl?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to talk to her about?"

Ezio's entire train of thought crashed into a ditch and exploded.

"…Talk?"

"My God, Ezio, you mean you don't even have a conversation planned?"

"…What's to talk about?" Ezio asked, confused.

"Okay, okay," Federico groaned, slapping his face with his palm. "Just…Just tell her she looks lovely and go from there. You know how to say that, right?"

"_Tu es bella ce soir," _Ezio repeated proudly.

"Pretty good, except it's _belle, _not bella, and it's afternoon, not evening."

"You're never satisfied, are you?"

"Just go, you idiot, go!" Federico hissed, giving his brother a healthy shove towards the entrance of the building. Ezio took another deep breath before taking his first step in.

And no, he never got that pronunciation quite right.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"What part of France are you from?" The soldier asked, suspiciously.

Ezio hesitated, mind travelling at light speed all the way back to the spring of 1475… What had she said when he'd asked her that same question?

"Montreal!"

The Frenchman stared him down and for a few seconds Ezio was positive he'd pronounced it wrong. He could hear Federico's laughter from outside Santa Croce already…

"Open the gates!"

Through his own amazement, Ezio had failed to notice Bartolomeo's jaw hitting the ground.

"You speak French?" The bound general whispered in awe.

"…There were a couple of French girls in Firenze…" Ezio replied as they proceeded through the gates to the Baron de Valios' encampment.

_Okay, I don't speak French! ^^; So if there are any hideous mistakes, please laugh at me where I cannot hear you! _

_Ca sufit- that's enough_

_Etre tranquille, des filles- be quiet, girls_

_De sorte qu'ils sont Francais- so they are French…_

_Excusez moi- excuse me_

_Tu es belle ce soir- you look lovely this evening_


	12. Nice, dependable Assassins

Maria gritted her teeth as another round of drunken laughter shook the small tavern violently. _Patience, Maria, patience, _she reminded herself reverently. However it seemed the soldiers weren't going to hand her the peace she desired so desperately.

"Are you lost, girl?" A skinnier Saracen hiccupped through his mug, voicing his question in wiry, hardly comprehensible English.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to pick on a lady?" Maria responded coolly from behind her drink as she took a sip, trying her hardest not to give in to the snorts of laughter.

"What is you doing in this _beit shtiya Yerushalmi, _pale girl?" The man continued despite his failing vocabulary, clearly on a role as the giggles from his peers rose in volume, "This place is for dark-skinned only! Invaders from the north are not welcome!"

"Look," The ex-Templar growled, setting her mug down loudly on the table, "I don't want a fight with you wonderful fellows. Why don't you just-"

"_Afilu ha-kalba hazoht mai-Europa, yeish la milonim yafim!" _

This was apparently the joke of the century as the entire tavern exploded into hiccupped laughter. Maria did not understand the statement, but from the tone of the outburst, it was clear that it was not a flattering remark. She felt her last straw or patience snapping.

"Don't worry, sweet," The English-speaking Saracen gasped through his giggles, "He means this as a compliment!"

A translation followed shortly, and the room burst into laughter once more. Maria stood abruptly and turned her back on them, proceeding down the hallway swiftly to the room she had rented.

"Assholes," she muttered and slammed the door on the drunken soldier's plea for her to return. Maria sighed and threw herself down on the bed. She winced as her back connected with it, hardly a pleasurable experience. Her eyelids lowered as she grimaced- of course. She couldn't believe what a curse it had suddenly become to have light skin.

Maria had never thought of herself in a feminine fashion, but she'd always thought a fair complexion had been a desirable trait. Of course, here in Jerusalem a pale face was hard to find, but still…Somewhere in her stomach Maria felt a sickening jealousy towards the tanned beauties she saw gracefully balancing jugs on their pretty heads. She huffed inwardly- what was so great about grace and posture anyway? Certainly she must be attractive in her own way!

The ex-templar frowned, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. Maria found it hard to believe she'd caught herself thinking about beauty for the thousandth time. And so she merely flipped the blame over to the cause of her presence in Jerusalem, as she had been doing for the past few months.

It seemed that white-hooded man was the cause of all her problems. She sighed- Maria hadn't believed the doctor's when they'd told her. Hell, they were so clueless half the time she barely trusted them, but deep in her heart…she knew as well. There are some things a woman never forgets- her first pregnancy is definitely high on the list. She connected her pain and vomiting to that night in Acre…it seemed so long ago, a fleeting memory. But it had been the last time she saw him.

And so Maria fell to sleep, dreaming of the white robed man she both loathed and adored.

It felt as though she had hardly closed her eyes when they snapped open to the creaky sound of her door opening. And it wasn't her hand on the knob. Maria bolted up, her hand flying to her sword as blue eyes observed the door carefully.

She relaxed a bit when it was only the innkeeper who entered her room, unarmed.

"Adon-Aliezer?" She asked respectfully, still uncomfortable with the odd titles of the language.

"Please, my dear, let's not be so formal," he chuckled, "Ali is fine."

Maria nodded, suddenly wary of the man's presence in her private room late at night.

"What's wrong?" She asked boldly.

Ali sighed and tired green eyes focused on her.

"You need to leave," he said simply, "I'm sorry to throw you out like this, but I don't think it's safe."

"What do you mean?" Maria frowned and slid off the bed, approaching the turbaned man worriedly.

"Those soldiers, from earlier this evening," he shook his head sadly, "They spoke about you after you left…"

Maria's frown deepened. She doubted they were admiring her exotic features.

"I…overheard some of their conversation," Ali gulped, "They planned to enter you room later, and…I don't know if they were merely playing, or if the liquor had gone to their heads, but-"

"I don't need to know any more," Maria grimaced, folding her arms. "I suppose leaving wouldn't be a bad idea…" she sighed.

"I am sorry," Ali mumbled, "If you want your money-"

"No, it'll be fine," Maria smiled emptily, "keep it. Thank you for the warning, Ali."

The innkeeper nodded and watched as Maria packed up the few belongings she had taken out during her stay. She brushed past him and was about to leave when he asked;

"One thing, though," he began hesitantly. Maria paused, "Are you with the crusaders?"

She considered for a moment.

"Not anymore," she admitted, "I'm just here to visit a friend."

"Ah," the man hummed, "I wish you fortune, then. Be careful, daughter."

"Thank you, sir," she said as she opened the door and headed out quietly. The tavern was dark, but Maria could make out the tables and counter as she glided past them. Wincing, she saw the positions they were in and concluded the soldiers had somehow gotten more drunk as the night led on. She pondered briefly how she slept through it…

She pulled open the rotting door to the inn and stepped out into the Jerusalem night. Maria closed the door behind her and took a deep breath. She loved the gentle heat of the evenings here, much better than back home, where nights were glazed with ice.

However her freedom was short lived as she had only taken five or so steps from the tavern when she detected four other men around her.

"_Ehy, na'arat Europa," _The voice that mocked her this time was not riddled with snorts and drunken cackles- it was dead serious.

Maria turned and watched with a sharp glare as the off-duty Saracens approached her, a few armed with knives.

"What do you want from me?" She snarled at them.

"Do you know what the crusaders did to us?" The English speaker, his voice now clear, began cynically, "Your kind slaughtered our families, our wives and children."

"What does this have to do with me?" Maria asked quietly, hand slowly reaching for her sword. If they thought she was a helpless victim, they had another thing coming.

"You have no right to be in Jerusalem, our holy city," he continued, "After all the blood you've spilt, all the innocents you butchered like animals…"

She felt the guards approaching, but was determined not to make the first move. In truth, Maria knew what they spoke of- she knew of the atrocities the Templars had committed in their "holy war". But she wasn't with them any more; they were a part of her past. Something she wanted to forget- so why did life insist on reminding her?  
"I had nothing to do with that," She stiffened, "You think this is justice, murdering an innocent because she resembles your enemy?"

"Perhaps," the man shrugged and took a step closer- Maria flinched slightly- in the darkness, she hadn't noticed how close they were, "Perhaps it is not justice."

The next moves flew past in an instant- he yanked his arm back, preparing to stab her middle with a small dagger- but she caught it with her sword, which they had failed to notice she had drawn.

"This is revenge!" He growled, dark eyes burning with rage. Maria jumped back, allowing his weapon to fall off her sword with a loud SHLINK. She melded into a defensive stance and whirled around, wide-eyed. It was self-defense now- kill or be killed. She noticed some of her opponents were unarmed; they would fall first.

Maria lunged forward, aiming a slash at the nearest Saracen's chest. He sprang back, out of her reach. She turned just in time to catch a blow from behind, deflecting the dagger a moment before it would've severed her spine. Out of blind faith, she flipped her sword without turning around and thrust it behind her, certain an enemy would've attempted to take her blindside again.

She was rewarded with a shriek as the blade sunk deep into a man's lungs. She yanked it out and turned back to her opponents fiercely. The English speaker snarled at her, enraged by the loss of his man. He came at her wildly, his small sword almost too quick for her to parry. Finally, slashing with one hand and grabbing at her with the other, he managed to land a blow. Maria cried out as the steel bit into her left shoulder, ripping the muscle and rendering her arm useless. He tore the weapon from her body and she stumbled back, nearly blinded from the pain. Blood spurted out from it, a stream of dark crimson. She swore under her breath as he came at her again. However he must've underestimated her handicap, because one of his strikes was lighter than it should've been, creating an opening. She brought her knee up to his legs in one of the most effective moves she knew and he doubled up, wheezing. Using her good arm, she dug her blade into his neck, where it purged through the other side in a spray of blood.

The Saracen emitted a low gurgle before collapsing at her feet. Maria straightened and eyed the remaining soldiers defiantly. With the apparent leader dead, the two of them dropped their weapons, bade her goodnight in their respective tongues', and returned to their beds in the inn. Maria waited until she was certain the door had closed before allowing herself to sink to her knees.

"Shit," she muttered as she examined her shoulder. She could only hope the bone had not been touched, but movement at the exact moment didn't sound so smart…And with the adrenaline of the fight quickly dissipating, she didn't know how long she would last against the searing pain. Maria swore again when she realized she'd be visiting her Assassin early than usual at this rate…

Maria found it exceedingly ironic, as she struggled through the unfamiliar streets searching for a bureau she hardly remembered, that she was seeking his help. Neither one had taken that night in Acre seriously, and they had officially parted for the last time after he had helped her with Bouchart. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Somehow, her murky vision revealed the ladder to the rooftops, right next to the bureau. Maria sighed raggedly in relief as she grabbed hold of the wooden tool, but nearly screamed when she tried to climb normally. Swearing, she realized climbing was going to be a lot slower with one hand.

And so progress was slow as she took great care not to flex her wounded shoulder, which at this point was soaked with blood. After a long struggle, she finally scrambled onto the roof, where she nearly passed out.

Shaking herself, Maria groaned and climbed to her feet, the bureau now in sight. She dragged herself over to its edge and peered down into the chamber from the lattice opening.

"Idiots," she muttered. How was she supposed to get down without use of her arm? Carefully, she positioned herself so she was slowly sliding off the roof…then caught herself with her good arm, suspended in the air. Then she simply let go and hoped the bureau's many cushions would shelter her fall.

They didn't.

"God almighty!" Maria croaked as her back slammed into the stone floor, mercilessly pounding it and sending another hot spike of agony up her shoulder. The dim light of the candles was being smothered by dark splotches on her eyes as she fought once more for consciousness. Suddenly, she detected a noise, apparently caused by her outburst- a soft rustling, stirring sound…As quickly as she could, she turned and looked around.

Just a few feet ahead of her Altair lay, sleeping peacefully on several of the bureau's cushions. _So that's where they all went, _she surmised. Then shook herself and crawled over to him.

"Hey, Altair, wake up!" She hissed, wincing, "I need your help!"

The Assassin made no reply.

Maria felt a wave of nausea wash over her and she suddenly began to rasp for breath.

"Altair!" She shook him weakly with her right hand, "Come on, you idiot! I'm hurt!"

He murmured something and she gasped as his large hand covered her own. He pulled gently on it.

"You…stupid…bastard." She panted as the darkness made another assault. Her head fell on his warm body and her eyes drooped closed.

Maria cursed him once last time before her body went limp against his. Altair shifted slightly as the blood began to seep onto him, but made no move to wake.


	13. Young at heart pt1

The Apple truly was a thing of wonder. Capable of creating, destroying, uniting, dispersing, and so much more… How much of that could we be made to know? When I lifted my eyes from the ball, I saw Leonardo was processing that exact question. Yet he probably had a confident answer to it, whereas I had nothing.

I brought my hand closer to the Piece of Eden, stroking it. In a way, the Apple was like a pet, which explained the feelings of possessiveness it inspired in others. When my hand trembled a little and moved away, the ball dimmed. The current possessor of the Apple, me, in this instance, would then perceive a small sound, almost like a voice. If the owner would concentrate, he would find that the voice speaks in no known language, yet its meaning is clear. _Come back, _it says, _hold me again. Let no one touch me but you. I am your property, come and claim me. _And if you should listen to this siren's call, the next stroke brings with it a pleasure that cannot be understood. The Apple was indeed a curious object, but I still thought I was right to lock it away.

Unfortunately, I was in no position to do that yet. There were still so many questions I had for the glowing ball of wisdom, and Leonardo still wished to speak to it. And that brings me back to the present- the main room of the _Isola Tiberina _hideout, _Roma. _

Leonardo and I sit at the table, marveling at the round ball of unearthly material. The hour is late, and I know my friend must soon return to his studio to prepare for tomorrow's patrons. I have already promised him that he may take the Apple with him, purely for analytical reasons. Leonardo is my greatest ally, and I trust he will guard the Piece of Eden with his life. Besides, it is only for a day. He will have it back to me by nightfall, twenty-four hours from now.

Leonardo yawns suddenly and his lids droop. I look up at him curiously, and he tells me: "I really should be getting back now, Ezio."

"_Bene,_" I reply, making to stand. Leonardo does the same, though reluctantly. "Do you need anyone-?"

"I can make my own way back, thank you." Leonardo says quickly, stretching his stiff arms.

Distantly, I hear the Apple begin to whine. It wants my attention again…

"Leonardo," This is a bad idea, "would it be acceptable if I delivered the Apple later? I would like a few more moments with it…"

"Of course, of course," Leonardo, naturally, does not notice my hesitation, "I am much too tired to do anything with it now, anyway."

I walk my companion to the doorway, and on his way out he smiles at me. "We are not as young as we used to be, eh? I've never felt so sore, simply from being awake!"

His light humor is something that has not aged, however, and it draws a light chuckle from me, "Goodnight, Leonardo."

I close the door behind him. As if my body took cue from Leonardo's words, I suddenly become aware of a stabbing pain in my back. Irritated, I swing my arms at my sides and crane my neck as I return to the table, wincing at the cracking of my joints. I sit beside the Apple and resume petting it. It almost purrs.

My back never truly did recover from the Villa attack of 1499. I must have seriously misplaced something when I fell off that rooftop, but it's not a memory I prefer to think about. A snort escapes me, along with a wiry grin. How few of those memories I have indeed…

Another pang ricochets through my spine, and I begin to wonder if this is punishment for all the men I have slain in my long, bloody career. If it is, I'll admit it is quite fitting. The pain is right on the center of the scale between agonizing and hardly noticeable. It is just plain irritating, and I swear it will one day turn me insane.

As I continue to stroke the Apple, my mind wanders to those days when old men with back pain was just a joke. A joke I would share with my elder brother as we scaled the _Santa Trinita's _bell tower. Although we raced there often, the most vivid race in my memory was our last…

"_It is a good life we lead, brother…"_

I was sixteen at the time. So young, so free… How could I have guessed that that pleasant game would be the overture to my slavery? My slavery to a heritage I neither knew nor wanted.

Sixteen…It'd been so long. Before I can stop myself, the memories pour in… My sixteenth birthday, meeting Cristina, laughing with Federico, climbing, more climbing, pulling pranks, climbing again, running… _Dio caro, _I did so much running back then. Leonardo was right- we are not as young as we used to be.

Suddenly, the same fatigue that overwhelmed Leonardo hits me. I yawn, stifling the sound with my spare hand. It's just as well- even Master Assassins need their sleep. I stand, giving the Apple a solid thump before returning it to its casket. My back hurts too much to deliver this myself… But, I think with a smug grin, I am no longer alone…

"Andare?" The boy is in the library, busy in a notebook. He does not look up when I enter the room, the casket in my aching arms.

"_Si, Maestro?" _The novice replies.

"I need you to take this to the workshop of Leonardo da Vinci. I trust you know where to find it."

"_Si, Maestro."_

"Get it done tonight."

"_Si, Maestro."_

"And… be careful with it. The package is exceedingly valuable."

"_Si, Maestro." _

I am getting the feeling he does not want to be disturbed. With that being the case, heh heh, I drop the box onto his small table and turn around, heading for my own quarters. When I think about it, I am quite tired… Sleep cannot come soon enough.

[xxx]

It is morning when I awaken- early, but not too early. As usual, I don't want to get out of bed. But, duty calls…

I push back the covers and sit up, stretching. The brutal stabbing entity living in my back had slunk away some time during the night, planning its next sneak attack malevolently. However in the meantime, I am back-pain-free. I slide out of bed and begin questing around my room for a shirt. I never would've guessed that at forty-five, I am still incapable of organizing my own clothing, but I suppose some things never change… Claudia, for example.

As I am pulling on my clothes and tying my hair, I hear knocking at the door.

"Ezio?_" _It is Niccolo. Figures he would be up this early… "Are you awake?"

"I am now, Niccolo," I reply, rolling my eyes though I know he can't see.

"I have something here for you from _Il fabro _who lives outside the hideout entrance. He says he-" As he is speaking, I open the door. When he sees my face he immediately stops talking, and his expression goes blank. Well, blank for Niccolo, at least, which isn't much different from his usual.

"Niccolo?" I offer, frowning at his sudden silence, "Machiavelli? Something on my face?"

Without warning, Niccolo throws himself at me, sending us both flying to the ground. I let out a strangled cry as we roll through my room, with him somehow ending up on top. I hardly recognize the bite of steel on my throat as my friend growls:

"Who are you and what have done with _Il Mentore?"_

What's happened to him?

"Niccolo!" I try to ease him, but I fear my expression is terrified, "What's gotten into you? It's me, Ezio!"

Machiavelli pales, then shakes his head. "I-Impossible! You…sound like him, but there's no way you could possibly be-"

"Niccolo, will you please tell me what's going on?" My confusion is quickly splitting itself between bewilderment and frustration. "Is there an imposter running around the hideout that I don't know about?"

"Ezio, is it really you?" Niccolo eyes me like he doesn't trust me. What have I done to deserve that look? "I…see some resemblance, but…"

"Will you at least get off of me?" I groan. Niccolo complies and helps me up, all the while scrutinizing me like he would some sort of bird with four wings.

"…You don't know, do you?" Machiavelli realizes quietly, eyes widening.

"Know _what?" _Honestly, this is very tiring.

"Ezio, look in the mirror." Niccolo instructs me, gesturing to my long, unpolished glass. I do as he says, expecting to see an extremely disheveled middle-aged man when I move the robes that are blocking the mirror.

This is not what I see.

"Oh my god…" I whisper.

"Now you see why I was surprised, at first." Niccolo's voice comes from far away, as though he is standing outside of the room instead of right beside me.

"Oh my god, _how?" _The wrinkles have disappeared from my forehead. Gone is the thin white scar across my lips. My skin is soft and young, my hair much lighter. Not only much lighter, but already tied into a ribbon- and I'm sure I haven't done that yet.

But what makes absolutely no sense is the fact that my 'reflection' is not wearing the same clothing as I am! I am not looking at a mirror-image, but a ghost!

And the ghost of my sixteen-year-old self stares back, just as amazed.

"I…" The apparition speaks in synch with me, "I…don't understand…"

"Where did you get these clothes?" Nicollo asks me.

This is when I first suspect the Apple's involvement in this prank. When I look down at myself, pull at my pants and shirt, I see the clothing of a Master Assassin living in the year 1504. However, when I gaze in the mirror, I see the doublet of a Florentine nobleman from nearly thirty years previously. One of me has to be the illusion.

"Niccolo," I begin dangerously, slowly turning my stare from the mirror to my concerned friend, "…I do not think I am actually wearing these clothes."

"Forgive me, _Maestro,_" Machiavelli says, "But I do not understand…And I don't think I want to."

"I am wearing clothing, Niccolo!" What an ass, "I'm not naked!"

"Ezio, weren't you and da Vinci examining the Apple last night?" Niccolo asks me suddenly, hiding his grin. Bastard.

"Yes…" I answer, "But… Listen to me. I sound like my modern self, don't I?"

"Indeed, you do." He tells me. Good…

"And I feel as though I am wearing my usual garments…" I continue slowly, "I only appear on the outside to be a teenager."

"Ah, _capisco!" _Niccolo's face suddenly lights up, "So your current appearance is an illusion."

"_Si," _I answer, "And how many objects do we have lying around that happen to excel in casting illusions…?" I add bitterly.

"So at some point last night, the Apple must have somehow altered your outer-self to look like…Well, you." Niccolo surmises.

"It's funny," I mutter, "I don't remember it happening…"

"If what you say is true, that you yourself can't see the illusion, then it makes sense." Niccolo explains, shrugging as though it's completely reasonable.

"Alright, then to turn the illusion off, all we need to do is get back the Apple."

"And where is the Piece of Eden?"

Uh-oh. I felt my stomach do a slow roll-over. "I…I, uh, lent it to Leonardo for the day…" I could've turned into a fish and Leonardo wouldn't give me the Apple back until his time was up.

"Well, then our solution is simple," Machiavelli clears his throat, "you will need to live through the day as your eighteen-year-old self-"

"-Sixteen," I correct. Niccolo glares for a moment before returning to his speech.

"until Leonardo returns the Apple. Then we can change you back to normal."


	14. Family vacation

Summer, 1200

The event took place during what was at first labeled, in secret, as a 'family vacation'.

Ever since the return from Cyprus and the birth of his two children, Altair had found peace and tranquility rampant within the halls of Masyaf. But now, seven years later, he was becoming restless. Maria, his loyal and beautiful wife, took note of this.

And that was how he'd come to be walking along the streets of Jerusalem with a sniveling Sef in his arms and Darim tugging on his hand urgently.

"Abbah!" Darim cried loudly, "Abbah, abbah, abbah, ABBAH!"

Altair had dreamed when he was younger that one day, a child would call out to him with that very word: 'father'. However in that dream, the word was full of love and understanding when, in reality, it was loaded with frustration and agitation.

"What is it, Darim?" Altair sighed, casting his son a wary glance.

"When is Imah coming?"

"_Mother," _Altair corrected, "just went to purchase some water. She will be back in a moment."

Maria had made it clear many times that it was fine that their children should bear Mid-eastern names and they may call their father 'abbah', but she wanted to be 'mother', and nothing else would do. The children, however, did not entirely grasp this concept. Sef, being only three years old, would often call her 'Imer', or 'Momah'.

"Moter?" Sef mumbled blearily, looking up at his father and sniffing. A bruise was forming quite unattractively where Darim had punched him.

"Here I am!" Maria huffed, emerging from the bustling crowd with two goat-skins, each bulging with liquid. "Miss me, love?" she asked Altair with a smile.

"Imah!" Darim ran to her and jumped with excitement.

"Ah-ah," Maria tutted, crouching to his height, "What did I tell you about running and jumping?"

Darim did not answer, instead he grabbed the skin from her outstretched hand and began to drink.

"Darim," Maria repeated sternly, "What did I tell you."

The young boy swallowed and then looked away stubbornly, "…Not to do it on a hot day."

"Yes, and today is certainly hot," she inhaled sharply as she climbed back to her feet, "I don't want anything unpleasant happening to my little boys because they exhausted themselves."

"Imah?" Sef said, causing Maria to gently take him from Altair's arms.

"Mummy's here, baby," She cooed, bringing the second skin to the child's lips, "What's wrong? Does your owchie still hurt?"

Altair couldn't help but smile. You never truly know a person until you see them interact with their offspring, it seemed. When he first met her, Maria had been a ruthless swordsman, and a brilliant one at that. Every opportunity she'd had, she'd yelled at him, pummeled his ego and shattered his pride. Yet look what affection she had for his little baby… Unconditional love. Ten years ago he'd never even believed it existed.

"Hey, quit daydreaming and walk, will you?" Maria snapped, "We have to find somewhere to rest until the heat passes."

"Of course," the grand-master replied distantly and adjusted the heavy straw bag on his shoulders. In it resided every child-related object known to man, from linen swabs for Sef to wooden soldiers for Darim. And oh so many snacks…

They had not been walking very long when a shriek suddenly alerted the Assassin family.

"Help!" A young woman's voice cried out, "Won't somebody help me!"

"Goodness," Maria exclaimed quietly, "What's going on…?"

"Imah-" Darim began, but his mother hushed him.

"Maria, take the children to the bureau," Altair instructed hastily, handing her the baby-bag. "Namar will meet you there."

"While you do what?" She asked, eyeing him cautiously.

Altair gave her a helpless shrug, nodding slightly to the growing crowd.

"Altair…" Maria started, "You're not a kid anymore. You can't just drop everything because the nearest-"

"-Please, Maria?" Altair pleaded, changing tactics to desperate.

The wife sighed before shaking her head, "Fine. I'll be waiting at the bureau, and you'd better not be a second late!"

"_Todah rabah, motek,_" The Assassin replied, giving her a quick peck before turning and sprinting into the crowd. Maria smiled weakly before gathering her too curious sons and rushing off in the other direction.

"It's been so long…" Altair remarked to himself as he approached the commotion.

"Thief! I'll have your hand for that!"

"Please, I've done nothing wrong! Won't anyone stop him?"

Oh yes, it had been some time…

Altair gently pushed the last of the bystanders out of the way before drawing his blade, a movement that earned him the attention of two nearby guards.

"You'd best put that away, boy," One of them retorted, a tall one with a thick beard, although nonetheless appeared to be three or four years his junior.

"Make me, _dofek-khazirim,_" Altair replied smugly.

"How dare you!" The response was instantaneous, as the entire _shouk_ had heard the insult. The guards stopped toying with their catch and drew their weapons, prepared to put an end to this obnoxious upstart.

There were only three of them, so the battle was short-lived. After running the first through with his sword, he quickly parried a blow to his right, and managed to kick his attacker as well, staggering him. Altair finished him off while he caught his breath and turned around just in time to block another slash. He sidestepped easily when the guard's next strike came and slipped his hidden blade between the man's shoulders.

With the guards disposed of, the Assassin grand-master approached the victim for the usual bout of praise and promise.

"That was quite a performance, sir!" She gushed, "thank heavens you came when you did!"

He said nothing while he replaced his sword in its sheath. Altair's thoughts were with Maria- she probably hadn't made it to the bureau yet. He could easily catch up with her after this, though she'd be tired. Maria never really was one for the desert heat. He smiled. He wouldn't mind going to bed with her a little earlier than-

Pain. Raw, unfiltered agony. Altair's breath caught in his throat, producing a strange choking sound. Glancing down with bulging eyes, he noticed a dagger hilt planted very firmly in his stomach, and the slim hand grasping it.

"You should pay more attention to your admirers, you know," the young woman's voice was distant and muffled, "one of them may turn out to be a Templar assassin someday."

"Wha…" He coughed. His body was beginning to feel quite numb, and his knees buckled. His assailant caught him and eased him against the wall.

"Relax, heathen," she muttered, "you'll live. They're not paying me to deliver a corpse, you know."

Blood was staining his clothing at an alarming rate, and he could feel his mind going. The _shouk_ swam before his eyes, and despite the blistering heat his body shuddered violently. From far away he watched the Templar woman bind his hands and feet.

And then, darkness…

{xxx}

He was being dragged. He knew this because he could feel the grit of dirt beneath his legs and he could hear the rough brushing of garment against earth.

When the numbness receded from his limbs, he began to struggle. However, this hurled a spike of pain through his stomach, and he ceased immediately.

"Oh, you're awake," A breathless voice spoke to him, "They might call you the Eagle, but for a bird you sure are heavy."

"M-m…" he struggled to get the sound out, "Maria…"

"Your turncoat wife?" The stranger continued, snorting, "They forgot about her a long time ago. I wouldn't worry. She's probably safe."

His flexed his wrists- they were securely bound. Ankles were also strictly confined.

"You're not escaping, at least not till I've been paid." The voice explained. Altair stared up at the sky and noticed the sun was gone. It was dusk now… Maria would murder him.

If he made it out alive to begin with, that was.

"You-" after a few rattling coughs, his voice cleared, "-you work for the Templars?"

"Indeed," she huffed, struggling to pull him along, "And they're handing out quite the pretty-penny for your face."

He absorbed this information silently. That explained the two men he'd found by the stables, the ones who almost seemed to be watching his every move…He'd thought they were just average _shodidim _up to no good, and they were far from innocent. He didn't tell Maria why he felt the sudden urge to clean his hidden blade that night.

"You expect to be compensated for you efforts?" Altair finally asked.

"I do," she replied, "though, I'll tell you, hauling you around deserves far more compensation than I'm getting."

He laughed bitterly, "Indeed, for you are working for free, child."

"Excuse me?"

"They will not pay you a cent. Why should they, when they could easily kill you upon my deliverance?"

"No," The dragging stopped. "Montain is an honest man. He wouldn't-"

"Oh but he would!" Altair insisted, "As they always do. Tell me- you say you know of my wife, the traitor. Do you know what her 'master' did to her before I found her?"

There was silence on the other end. Then, hands grabbed roughly at his shoulders and he was thrown against a wall, where he scrambled into a sitting position. In the gathering darkness, he caught a glimpse of his captor's face as she sat across from him.

"Who was this 'master' and what did he do?"

"So you don't know?" Altair smiled. Finally, he had the advantage, even if it did come with a nauseating dizziness.

"Let's just say the Templars don't tell me everything." She answered, tone hiding where her loyalties lay.

Altair considered. The truth was a long and complicated story, and it had a small, irritating ring to it: it happened to be true. Now, lying…

He could lie for a little bit.

"You may have heard of him," he said, "Robert de Sable?"

"Hm, sounds familiar," She brooded, "…Templar grand-master?"

"And personal advisor to none other than Richard the Lionhearted himself." Altair added.

"I see…"

"He was Maria's master for…some time."

"Go on."

"As you also may know, my wife is an attractive woman- not to mention an expert swordsman. She quickly gained the attention of this…Robert de Sable character…"

And so he told the story, and she listened. Some of it was truth, some of it was falsehood, some of it was the product of a tired and injured mind that was slowly losing its grasp on consciousness. But by the end of the tale, his hands and feet had somehow become free of their constraints.

"Then what happened?" She prodded him gently with a finger, just as his shoulders had sagged.

"Ah yes," Altair shivered, the cold feeling returning, "That was when… Al Mualim summoned his bewitched allies and… I had to defend myself or die."

"What were these 'bewitched allies'?" She asked, and for a moment Altair mistook her for Darim at story-time, "more mind-twisted Assassins?"

"No, no," Altair shook his head, "…Tigers. Great panthers of the east…"

"Amazing…" the bounty hunter whistled lowly.

"After I…successfully vanquished them," Altair knew he was slipping, but his mouth and brain were no longer connected. "Maria brought Sef some clay she'd purchased in the village and… Adah, I am so, so sorry…" His eyelids fluttered.

"And then what…?"

{xxx}

"Abbah! Abbah, abbah, abbah, abbah, ABBAAAAAH!"

Altair groaned, and wrestled his eyes shut tighter. His ears were ringing and his stomach throbbed with a horrible pulse.

"Da…-" he interrupted himself to moan pitifully. Then paused, and thought about finishing his son's name, deciding in the end not to. The comfort of the pillows all around him was enough to convince him that wakefulness was not worth the effort.

"I thought you were dead!" Darim continued, unperturbed by his father's level of agony, "And when Imah and the lady brought you in here I was like, 'he's so dead!', and then Mother hit me and said, 'no he's not dead, don't ever say that again'!"

Altair forced himself to utter some sort of response, to show that he was indeed, not dead. "…Oh?"

"Yeah, and then Sef starting crying and he yelled, 'I don't want Babah to be dead!' And then Imah made me play with him again. And then Imah starting crying, too."

"Mother was crying?"

"Yeah. It was scary."

"Darim?"

"Yeah?"

"Where is-"

"Altair!"

Hurried footsteps, then Maria's face appeared above his own and he felt her weight beside him in bed.

"M-Maria?" He risked opening an eye to look at her.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," She said quickly, "You're all right, love. You've had a fever for a few days, but you're getting over it. Oh, thank god, thank god…"

"A few days?" both eyes flew open and he struggled to sit up. Maria pushed him back gently. "I've been asleep for a few days?"

She nodded, hugging him. "Namar though you were going to die…He was preparing to send out pigeons and…"

"Maria…I'm not going to die." She withdrew and stared at him. Altair smiled and raised his eyebrows. It had been the right move- he felt her body loosen and she relaxed, falling into him with a long, desperate kiss.

When they separated, Maria pushed him back against the cushions and pulled the blanket up around him. It smelled of sweat.

"You need to rest," she clarified as she left the bed, "I'll see you soon."

Altair nodded and resettled comfortably. But just as he was drifting off for the third time, Maria spoke again:

"Oh, and Altair?"

"Hmm?"

"When you recover, I'm going to kill you."

"Fair enough."

{xxx}

_Hebrew translations:_

_Abbah- father_

_Imah- mother_

_Todah rabah, motek- many thanks, sweetheart_

_Dofek-khazirim- you pig f*cker_

_Shouk- market_

_Shodidim- thugs, robbers_

_I think that's it… don't forget to comment/review if I missed something! _


	15. Young at heart pt2

The oddest thing, I think, is that when I strap on my weapons as I usually do, they appear in the mirror. My swords, knives, crossbow; all of them appear on my teenage person. But my hidden blades do not.

I bring my hands to my face and examine them. They are bony with age, yet they are still sturdy and serviceable. Two bracers are tied to my wrists, and blades sharper than needles hang from them. When I flick my ring fingers, both weapons slide from their hiding places. I take in the glint of the steel against the hideout's torches.

However, when I watch myself attempt the same action in the mirror, the blades do not appear. I hear the click, I feel the cold metal against my fingers, yet the objects themselves are completely invisible.

Hmmm… Maybe I can get Leonardo to somehow bottle this strange mist of invisibility…

"Ezio?" Niccolo asks me through the door, "Are you in there?"

"_Si, _Niccolo," I answer, still staring at my imperceptible hidden blades.

The man enters, breathless. He approaches me with some measure of caution, but quickly discards it.

"A group of recruits has just returned from _Londra._" He says, "One of them was injured upon entering the city, but I have taken care of him." Niccolo has begun to compose himself, and in a matter of seconds he stands beside me as stoic as always.

"_Bene,_" I turn to him, sheathing my weapons. "And how fared the mission?"

"It went as anticipated," My advisor reports, "Henry will not bother us again."

"Alright. The other recruits are well rested I assume?"

"You mean the group that returned from _Mosca _two weeks past?" He asks.

"Yes," I answer.

"They are. They await their next assignment."

"Of course. Tell them to meet me in the entrance room, beside the map table."

"Ezio, if I may," Niccolo begins, switching from his reporting voice to his suggesting voice, "I do not think it wise to brief your recruits while they are under the Apple's illusion. Why not wait another day so-"

"No," I interrupt, "I understand your concern, my friend, but we cannot afford to wait simply to save my own dignity. Terrible things are happening in _Lisbona _as we speak, and we need to stop them as soon as possible."

"I…see." Niccolo looks down as he replies. His tone indicates I have just undergone another one of his 'character tests'. This is what happens when you have a philosopher for a right hand man.

"I will inform the recruits at once, _mentore._"

"Good."

[xxx]

There is quiet murmuring as I near the room, but once I enter it ceases. My four students stand at attention, bowing respectfully at my presence.

"Assassins," I begin, gesturing for them to sit at the map table, which they do while sharing nervous glances. "I hope you have enjoyed your respite from _Russia. _However, you will not be lounging around the hideout much longer."

"_Maestro," _A young recruit speaks up hesitantly.

"Yes, Fiametta?"

"Um," She pauses, unsure. The others glare at her and she seems to shrink right before my eyes. It's amusing, but I keep my 'cold, heartless teacher' mask on. "Could we not go back to _Russia _so soon? It's…It's very cold there."

She has obviously disappointed her fellow Assassins, as they all drop their gazes and visibly deflate.

"Indeed," I chuckle, "I will not be sending you there this time. No, your targets lie in _Portogallo, _in the city of _Lisbona._"

"Master, just one question," another recruit begins, "why are you wearing-"

"I assume Machiavelli has informed you all of last night's accident." I cut him off quickly, and squash any further speculations on my appearance with a harsh glare.

"_…Si, mentore." _The offending recruit remembers his place, it seems. _Dio mio, _this must look so ridiculous… Even the children are older than me!

"If there are no more questions…" I pause, expecting another hand to go up. When this does not happen, I continue, "The inquisition has laid siege to yet another port district of _Lisbona. _If the Jews there do not convert, the Templars will burn them all.

Now this is not a hopeless case. The authorities have promised the Jews that they may leave the country by boat, if they so wish. However, inside information has revealed to us that the Templars plan to block the port.

Your job is to travel to _Lisbona _and make sure each one of those innocents escape. Machiavelli will give you your budget; leave much of it for bribery and the hiring of mercenaries; you will need them both. This mission is extremely dangerous, but I place faith in you all. I know you will succeed.

Above all else: remember the Creed. Hide in plain sight, do not compromise your fellow, and stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.

Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

My recruits parrot the statement back to me, and I dismiss them. The moment they have left the room I hear the murmuring again, only this time it is more fervent. I sigh as I move towards the building's main exit. I need some fresh air…

[xxx]

Rome is just as busy as ever, and when I leave the compound I am nearly plowed into the dirt by a Borgia horseman.

"Obey _la guardia _at all times!" He shouts, his voice echoing across the tall buildings of _Isola Tiberina. _

I walk a few paces and notice two of my missing recruits. Machiavelli informed me earlier that they were indeed home, yet I could not find them anywhere inside…

"Carlo, Vittore!" I try to call them, but they seem not to notice me. They are laughing as they stumbling down the street, still wearing their robes. God, what a sight…Are they drunk?

When they are near enough, I try again, "Carlo Octovioni and Vittore Peso, where have you been?"

They ignore me once again. I am getting a little frustrated…

I grab Carlo by the arm, causing him to raise his head slightly from his stupor.

"Octovioni, what is wrong with you?"

"Get off me, boy!" He snarls, attempting weakly to free himself. This gains Vittore's attention. Luckily, he seems a much more affectionate drunk…I think.

"Hey, what's the problem here?" He says, his voice laced with giggles, "Who are you?"

"I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze," I clear my throat and stare them both down, "And you two are in Very Big Trouble."

Carlo bursts into laughter, veritably bruising my ego, but Vittore seems to sober up.

"M-m-m-m-master?" He splutters, "It's…It's you?"

"Of course it's me," I scoff, "don't you recognize the sound of your master's voice?"

Carlo's knees are buckling and tears are dropping down his cheeks, "You? You're the great _Ezio Auditore? _Ha! If you're Ezio, then I'm Claud-"

"Carlo, shut up!" Vittore kicks him, fear now completely gripping him. Perfect… "That's really him!"

"W-what?" The severely intoxicated man seems shaken and stops laughing.

"Inside, both of you." I order them, and Vittore is quick to obey, "Report your sorry _culi _to Machiavelli. And don't think either of you will be leaving _la isola _any time soon."

"_S-s-si, mentore!" _Both my students yelp and scurry from my sight. Heh heh…

[xxx]

The problem with just walking is that I never have a destination in mind. Halfway through the walk I considered visiting Bartolomeo, but it would be extremely difficult to even try to explain my appearance to him. He has…what one could call a brawn-over-brains look on the world.

"That's quite a bow, boy," a passing stranger comments, "hunting some big game this afternoon?"

I shake it off. Many different remarks have come drifting towards me since the apple changed my appearance. A few minutes ago I strolled past a group of gossiping women, and one of them whistled at me.

I suppose I liked, though. No one's whistled at me in a while…

"You there!" A spark runs of excitement runs through me when I hear the tell-tale clanking of a Borgia patrol, "Halt!"

And so I comply.

The leader of the patrol approaches me. He doesn't seem like the friendly sort, and he eyes my weapons very suspiciously. His men surround me, and I say loudly:

"_Signori, _let's not be too hasty…"

The main soldier opens his mouth to reply, but then closes it. He waits for a second, and then asks me.

"Boy, how old are you?"

Don't say forty-five. Don't say that.

"Sixteen, _messere." _I answer with a smile.

"Sixteen, eh?" He drawls, brushing a gauntleted finger through his beard. That doesn't look very comfortable. "And what would a child need with all those knives?"

"I…" Um. My eyes dart nervously, and the longer the stretch the more suspicious my captors get. Come on, come on… "…Am a _mercenario?" _

_Merda. _I didn't mean to phrase it as a question.

"A mercenary as young as you? I don't buy it, boy."

"It's true!" I am in some serious _merda _right now. "I-I've only been working for a year now, and I'm very strong for my age!"

"What did he say his name was?" A voice behind me asks the leader.

"…Could be working with the _Assassini…" _

"Who are you?" The man asks me, hand drifting towards his sword pommel.

"M-Marcello," The first name that pops into my head, "Marcello Bombardi". Bombardi is a very common name, and I've used it as an alias once before…

"Say, he looks familiar." Another comment from the din.

"Have we seen you before, boy?" The commander continues his query, "Caught drunk, stole something perhaps?"

"No," I catch myself before I stammer again. I try to shrug and grin, "Just one of those familiar faces, I guess."

Silence. The men are clearly deciding my fate. If they arrest me, I'll have no choice but to defend myself, but I'm not looking for a fight. Especially not on my day of incognito.

The guard is rubbing his beard again. I suppose I do it too, even when I'm wearing gloves (force of habit), but gauntlets look less than comfortable.

"Get out of my sight," he finally says, throwing his hand about in disgust, "and you'll put those swords away if you know what's good for you."

"Thank you, _singore._" I bow gratefully before taking off.

"Boy got lucky." A man whispers as I run by.

"They've been getting more on edge recently."

"All thanks to that Auditore criminal."

I slow my pace to a jog, then stop to catch my breath. That was definitely a close one. When I look up, I find I have landed at Bartolomeo's estate. Funny.


	16. Team effort

February 1463

Maria frowned, burrowing her fingers deeper into her husband's chest, "Why do you have to go now? It's that important?"

"_Mi amore…_" Giovanni sighed, delicately removing her hands, "Were if I could I would spend all day and night with you, but I have already put this contract off for far too long."

"And is it so bad that some lucky Templar _bastardo _gets to live an extra night?"

Giovanni chuckled, "Firstly, I also miss our time in bed, but you have a child to think of now. Secondly, these Templars are much more dangerous than you realize, my sweet."

"Fine then," Maria pouted, lowering her gaze to her swollen stomach, "Go. But Giovanni-"

"Mm?"

"-Come back, _bene?" _She took his hand in hers, turning it over, feeling the skin, "You don't know what it's like to be the one who worries."

"I promise, Maria," He said quietly, lifting her fingers to his lips.

And with that, the Assassin lifted his hood and left, walking quickly out to the Florentine sunset.

Maria took a moment to watch the place where her husband had stood, lids lowered. Then she took a deep breath and turned around, entering the house.

"_Bambini!" _she called, "Time to get ready for bed!"

Collective groans and footsteps were heard as the Auditore clan dragged itself to its mother.

"_Madre, _do we have to?" Federico whined.

"I'm not even tired," Ezio insisted, pulling Claudia along by the wrist, "And Claudia's not either. _Vero, sorella?" _

"M-ma," Claudia yawned.

"Why do we always go to bed so _early _in the winter?" Federico attempted reason, "I feel like we ate dinner only moments ago!"

"You are all going to bed," Maria repeated, eliciting ugly faces from her sons, "But…"

"But?" the boys clung to the word like a piece of driftwood in the ocean.

"I will tell you a story if you all get ready quickly," Maria bribed them with a devilish smile, "a very good story."

The boys were gone faster than she could say 'cliffhanger'.

33333333333333

Ten minutes later, Claudia was in her crib and Ezio, Federico, and Maria were seated on a soft, plush bed. The boys had removed their vests and boots, sitting only in their silk shirts and leggings.

"Now," Maria began, trying faintly to find a more comfortable sitting position, "Do you remember where I stopped last time?"

"Yes," Ezio piped suddenly, "The baker decided to run away from home for a day."

"Exactly," Maria replied, grinning at her youngest son, "And then what happened?"

"She met a tall and mysterious man, we know," Federico said in monotone, rolling his eyes, "Just continue the story already!"

"Patience, Federico, patience," The young mother scolded, "We will get to that soon enough. But first, there's-"

The gathering was rudely interrupted by three loud thumps originating from the door downstairs. Maria paused, lifting herself away from the bed slightly. After a few more moments the pounding sounded again, though much harder this time.

Maria's brow furrowed. Giovanni was not expecting any visitors, else he wouldn't have left. With great effort, she hauled herself from the bed and walked slowly to the boys' window, which overlooked the palazzo.

Four large men were grouped around the door, all armed but none carrying the symbol of the Medici. Something in Maria's stomach began to churn, and it wasn't the baby.

"_Madre?" _Federico asked quietly, "Is something wrong?"

The mother did not answer immediately. Instead, she pulled the curtains shut and headed for the door.

"Mother-"

"Federico, stay here," Maria told him sternly, bending down with difficulty, "Keep an eye on Ezio and Claudia for me. I'll be right back."

Federico nodded solemnly, understanding that something was certainly wrong. When Ezio tried to follow his mother down the stairs, he was able to detain him.

Maria bit her lip as another round of thumps shook the house like a battering ram. If they were associates from the bank, she would simply have to inform them that Giovanni was unavailable. If not…

Anxiety coursing through her, Maria slowly opened the door.

"Good evening, _signora,_" A tall, vested man greeted her, "Is this the home of Giovanni Auditore?"

"Yes, it is," She answered, swallowing. The stranger eyed her stomach with interest before returning his gaze to hers.

"I take it you are his wife," The man continued, "May I speak with him?"

"I'm sorry," Maria shook her head, "He is unavailable." She tried to close the door.

An armored foot prevented her.

"Please, _signora,_" The stranger laughed lightly, prying the door back open despite Maria's firm grip, "I think I may have given you the wrong impression."

Suddenly the door flew open, crashing against its frame. The man shoved her back, and as she stumbled he made way for his allies to enter. Maria gasped as the head _mercenario _grabbed her hands, locking them behind her. She thought to scream, but remembered the children hiding upstairs.

They dragged her to the foyer and threw her on the couch. The leader gave out a few simple instructions to his followers before returning her his full attention.

"Where is Giovanni Auditore?"

33333333333333

"Federico, when is _madre _coming back?" Ezio asked, but his big brother quickly hushed him.

"Stay here," he murmured, "I'm going to see what's happening."

The eldest Auditore slunk from the bedroom and headed for the stairway, where his mother's frightened voice bounced off the railing.

"My husband is a banker."

"Do not play games with me, _signora, _I have little patience for them."

Federico poked his head between the thin iron bars, watching silently.

"He-he goes to the bank whenever they need him," Maria continued, steadying herself, "I do not deal with his work."

"Certainly not," One of the other men scoffed.

The leader hesitated for a moment, folding his arms across his chest. Finally, he spoke: "I see he's wasted no time spawning. How many other bastards has the Assassin forced out of you?"

Maria's eyes widened and her face lost considerable color, "What?"

"_Signora, _we know what your husband has done. We are here to make him pay for it. And if we need to hurt you and your children to get to him, we will."

"There are no other children," Maria whispered quickly, "This is to be my first."

"Do you think me stupid?"

Federico pulled himself from the staircase and ran back to the bedroom as the stranger's voice rose. However, before he could make it there he collided with a certain sibling.

"Ow!" Ezio hissed as he fell onto his rear end.

"Ezio!" Federico snapped, "What are you doing?"

"You were gone for a long time, so-"

"Nevermind," Federico interrupted, shaking his head, "Ezio, there are bad guys downstairs. They want to hurt mother."

"Huh?" Ezio frowned, cocking his head.

"And they want to hurt us, too," Federico inhaled, "Listen, Ezio; get Claudia and go someplace safe, alright?"

"Someplace safe?" Ezio repeated, confused, "Where? And what about you and _madre?" _

"You can go to…" Federico closed his eyes, thinking fast. However the shouting from downstairs did not make the decision any easier. "…Go to Lorenzo's home. You remember Lorenzo, right? _Padre's _friend?"

"I think so…" Ezio nodded uncertainly.

"Just take Claudia and go, ok?"

"What about you?" The younger brother asked fearfully.

Federico sighed. "I have to rescue _madre _somehow."

"Federico, I want to stay with-"

"No, Ezio, you have to go now! If they find us, it's gonna be really bad!" Federico grabbed his brother's arm and led him back to the bedroom, where Claudia had begun to stir.

"Go through the window," Federico instructed, "Be careful with Claudia- and whatever you do, don't let her cry."

"Okay," Ezio agreed, and within the minute he was gone. Federico watched worriedly as his younger sibling lowered himself to the ground, Claudia drifted back to sleep on his back. It was very lucky that Ezio was such a natural climber.

"I have to save mother…" Federico told himself quietly, "But how…?"

He returned to the staircase, hoping some more espionage might provide an answer.

"I've already told you," Maria was saying, voice stronger, "I don't know where he is."

"I don't believe that," The mercenary replied, "But it doesn't matter. He will return, eventually."

"How do you know?" Maria challenged.

"An eagle always returns to its roost," the man answered, then smiled down at Maria maliciously, "I'm more interested in how we can pass the time."

Maria swallowed, but kept her expression stoic.

There were far too many of them, though even one would've been more than enough for the young boy to handle. An idea suddenly crossed Federico's mind. If he could escape the house, he could run to the guard. Surely they could sort this whole issue out.

Excitedly, Federico raced across the floor, aiming for the same window Ezio had just left from. Unfortunately, in his haste he managed to knock one of Ezio's toys, a set of wooden blocks, off its shelf and they crashed to the ground.

Federico gasped, face paling. Downstairs, the main _mercenario _paused his interrogation, returning to his full height.

"Unless…" He said quietly, "He is already here. Giuliano, check the upper floor."

The armed man nodded and made for the stairs.

Federico panicked when the loud thumps confirmed his thoughts. He rushed for the window, swinging his leg around and grabbing the ledge with shaking hands. Slowly, he worked his way down to the palazzo, until suddenly a man's voice called from the bedroom.

"Hey!"

In alarm, Federico slipped. He screamed as his body flailed through the air, arms trying desperately to grab something. Seconds before he hit the palazzo floor his fingers grasped a loose stone, but only succeeded in yanking it out of its structure.

The young boy landed outside the front door in a heap, the large rock crashing beside him. Federico sat up, whimpering when he touched his shoulder. However, before he could escape the palazzo, rough hands grabbed him and jerked him to his feet.

"Get off me!" Federico yelled, struggling fiercely as he was carried into the same foyer as his mother, "Let me go!"

"What's this?" Maria's inquisitor approached the bucking Auditore with keen interest, "Another of the Assassin-spawn?"

"Leave him alone!" Maria shouted as the Templar shoved her son.

"Why do you care?" He turned back to ask her, eyebrows raised, "You don't have any children, remember?" Suddenly, he chuckled, placing his hands on his hips, "Of course, I'm not surprised the _stronzo _has been with other women."

"Let my mother go!" Federico ordered as he steadied himself.

"Why should I?" The mercenary bent down to his height as he spoke. He reached out with his hand and stroked Federico's cheek, "You're a strong boy. I once had a son like you, you know. Do you know what happened to him?"

Federico said nothing, and the man straightened. "Your father murdered him."

"My father is not a murderer!" The Auditore replied angrily.

"Please, leave him alone!" Maria begged, though she was mostly ignored, "He's only a child!"

"And are the children of a snake not poisonous?" The Templar snapped at her, turning his back on Federico once more. He took a few more steps towards Maria, who shrunk in his shadow, "That boy will grow up some day to be every bit the killer his bastard father is! I should end it all now, by killing you!"

Suddenly, Federico elbowed his captor in the groin, earning a few seconds' freedom. He used this to run for the door, dodging the hands of his enemies as he went. Soon he had cleared the palazzo, sprinting through the dusk air like hell was on his heels.

333333333333

"Mama!" Claudia shrieked, "MAMA!"

"It's okay, it's okay!" Ezio grunted and he tried to push the baby higher up, to stop her from falling out of his arms, "Stop crying!"

Claudia sniffed, relaxing slightly. Ezio breathed a sigh of relief- until his little sister started up again with an ear-piercing whine.

Ezio shook his head, hardly keeping his own tears from dropping. They'd been lost for more time than he could count, and now that Claudia was awake things were not getting simpler. Who was Lorenzo? Where did he live? These were questions the young boy couldn't answer.

To the instant liberation of both, Federico came barreling down the street.

"Federico!" Ezio greeted over Claudia's sobbing. Federico skidded to a halt, expression bewildered.

"Ezio?" The older brother wheezed, doubling up, "What are you doing here?"

"I…I got lost." He admitted, shifting Claudia's weight again.

"F-f-fedi?" Claudia snuffled, inhaling a large ball of snot, "Fedi?"

"It's me, Claudia," Federico stood up, smiling weakly.

"Did you save mama?" Ezio asked quickly.

Federico shook his head, "No. We need to get help. We can find it at the palazzo de'Medici. I'll take you there."

It took several minutes for the children to navigate the darkening Florentine streets, and they attracted many confused and sympathetic glances. Soon though, they arrived at the bold, tall building that housed the young head of the Medici clan.

First, they approached the gate guard.

"Excuse us," Federico said politely, "We're the children of Giovanni Auditore. May we see Lorenzo?"

The guard regarded them skeptically, "Lorenzo is not here at the moment."

"Then can we see Alberto?" Federico pressed on, asking for the ruler's current right hand man.

"…_Si,_" the guard answered reluctantly, "But you will have to wait."

"How long?" Federico asked, exasperated.

"A day, perhaps," the guard replied.

Federico's jaw dropped, "A day? We don't have that long!"

"I cannot simply allow random children to enter the home of Florence's governor, boy." The guard's tone made it obvious the conversation was over.

Federico turned around, regrouping his siblings.

"Now what?" Ezio asked fearfully.

"We're going to get help from someone else," Federico said calmly, "But we need to put Claudia somewhere safe."

"Excuse me," Ezio turned suddenly, addressing the guard, "Can you watch our sister for us?"

"Ezio!" Federico hissed.

"I am not your babysitter, _bambino._" The man answered gruffly, "…But I will take her inside. The maids can watch her until you return."

As Ezio handed over the sniveling baby girl, he added menacingly, "If anything happens to her, you'll have to speak with my father, Giovanni Auditore."

"Of course, of course," the guard nodded, "Now get out of my sight, brats."

33333333333333333

"Please, you have to help us!" Federico pleaded, "Our mother will die if you don't!"

"Run along, boys," The patrol leader said, "It's getting dark out."

"How can you not believe us?" Ezio cried, "We need help!"

The patrol shifted, murmuring amongst itself. The armed guards had just been doing their route, same as always, when suddenly two extremely panicked children had approached them, raving about their mother.

"_Capitano, _what if they're serious?"

"They're just children, what harm can they do?"

"Better send someone, just in case."

Finally, the captain spoke, "Franco, go with the boys."

"_Si, capitano._"

The Auditore brothers sighed in relief and began the fast walk to their palazzo.

"If this is some kind of a prank, you kids are going to be in a lot of trouble…" Their escort warned.

They went the rest of the way in silence, except for a quiet 'this way', or 'come on' from Federico. In no time at all they were outside the Auditore plaza, making their way in. The group halted outside the jarred door, watching the men carefully.

"I tire of this…" Federico recognized that awful voice, "The Assassin is taking too long."

"I told you, he's not coming! Leave us in peace, we have nothing-"

"Be quiet, woman!" Maria suddenly cried out, causing both boys to tense. Ezio nudged the guard.

"Do something!" He urged quietly.

The man swallowed and nodded, poking his head into the room. When he got a good glimpse of the Templars, he froze, breath hitching in his throat.

"What's wrong?" Federico asked, frowning.

"_L-l-la croce nera…" _The escort whimpered, blood flushing from his face.

"What does that mean?" Ezio asked, louder as frustration mounted, "Can't you beat them?"

The man suddenly turned away from the door, running from the palazzo shakily. Over his shoulder, he called to the boys, "I'm going for backup!"

Ezio stood in shock, watching as their only hope fled for his life. "He left us…"

"Ezio, see those morning glories on the wall?" Federico asked, grabbing his brother's elbow.

"_Si…" _

"Bring them here, I have a plan…"

3333333333333

"Where is he?" The head Templar growled, more to himself now than to his hostage. He moved to face the bruised woman with a snarl, "Your husband is quite the coward, leaving you to us while he hides."

Maria did not speak, as the cuts on her arms warned her not to. As it was, the pain in her sore body threatened to take her at any moment, but she would stay strong for her children. She had to.

"If he does not come soon, we will do more than just bruises, _Madonna!" _

"Threaten me all you like," Maria looked away, "It will not make him come any faster."

The man came closer, looking down on her dangerously. His hands moved up, as though he couldn't decide whether or not to strangle her. Maria met his gaze unflinching. However, before any violence could unfold, the Templar leader's attention was drawn to a long shadow just outside the door.

"Is he here?" One of the men asked quietly.

The leader approached slowly, eyes on the door, until-

"Hey, ugly!"

The form of a young boy strolled casually into the room, hands behind his back.

"Another shit of yours?" The Templar asked Maria darkly, "How many of them are there?"

Maria blinked hard, forcing off the dizziness she felt. Suddenly she recognized the face of her youngest son and struggled desperately against her bindings.

"Ezio, run!" She cried.

"I said be quiet!" The man yelled, slapping her hard across the face. Maria fell back, landing on the floor painfully.

"Don't you touch her, you _figlio di un puttana-maiale!" _Ezio threatened, voice cracking.

The mercenaries were temporarily amused.

"What did you call me?" The leader asked, taking a few steps in the child's direction.

"I called you a low-down bull-cock sucker!" Ezio shouted, folding his arms across his chest.

For a moment, the Templar merely stood there. Then he ordered;

"Bruno, kill the little fucker."

But this was not enough for the little boy. Even as the mercenary approached somewhat hesitantly, Ezio laughed.

"It figures you would go after my mother. You would want motherly affection from a beautiful woman after your own _madre-puttana _left you!"

Bruno was enraged, "Shut up, _monello!" _

He began his charge then, and Ezio whirled around and ran for the exit. Once Bruno's foot had crossed the threshold, Federico yanked the rope and activated the trap. Bruno's other foot was suddenly caught in a lasso fashioned from flower stems.

The Templar fell, his head crashing into the same large stone that had fallen with Federico from the window. He was out cold.

Quickly, Federico removed his sword. Though it was heavy, Federico had just begun training with his father a few weeks ago, and he knew how to hold it.

"Yes!" Ezio cheered.

"Bruno?" The leader, however, did not share his mirth. Upon seeing the man's prone form, he shook his head. "I can't believe this… Giuliano, Carlo, kill them."

The boys watched anxiously as the other two mercenaries came at them. Ezio unrolled his strip of Morning Glory rope and wielded it like a cable. Federico was focused on not falling over while keeping his sword steady.

Giuliano ran at Ezio while his companion drew swords with Federico. Ezio tried to dodge him, but the large man's hands wrapped themselves around his stomach, lifting him into the air.

"Gotcha!" The man grinned, squeezing.

Ezio growled and bit him on the nose, kicking him in the stomach when he cried out. His grip loosened enough for Ezio to slip to the ground and wind the rope around his ankles. When Giuliano tried to catch him again, he toppled to the ground, where Ezio finished him off with a hard kick to the temple.

Federico was not having quite as much luck. He had all but dropped the sword, instead trying to jump out of the way of his opponent's lunges and thrusts.

"Ezio, help!" Federico called, terrified. Ezio took what was left of his flower stem string and ran at the Templar- but when he tried to wrap it around the man's foot it snapped uselessly.

So instead, the boy scooped up a pebble from the ground and tossed it at the enemy's head, where it bounced off harmlessly.

"Hey, _gruello!" _He yelled, aiming a kick at the man's backside.

This earned him his attention, and the _mercenario _turned to take a swing at him. Federico saw the opening and took it, lunging desperately with his sword. The Templar cried out as the blade tore through his central muscles, causing him to drop to one knee in agony. The wound was not serious, but it was very painful and bloody, hindering the man long enough for both children to yank his sword away.

"We did it!" Ezio breathed, glancing over the three incapacitated men with pride.

"I don't believe it..." The leader muttered as he drew his sword, stepping into the palazzo, "You really are devil's spawn."

"We're not afraid of you!" Ezio sneered, readying himself for a charge despite not having a weapon.

"Let's just see how that bastard feels once he's had _his _children ripped from him." The Templar said coldly, "I've already taken care of his wife."

Before Federico could do anything, Ezio was screaming. He'd thrown himself at the man, who had effortlessly grabbed his neck, choking him. Federico watched in terror as his baby brother kicked and whimpered, until his breathing became a scratchy gasp. Finally, he stopped struggled, and the mercenary tossed him away like a ragdoll.

Federico grasped his sword as strongly as he could when the man approached him. He managed to block at least two strikes before his weapon was cast from his hand, clattering onto the ground. Quivering hazel eyes watched helplessly as the final blow came-

"Stand down, Bocelli!" The voice of a teenage boy echoed through the palazzo, freezing the Templar momentarily.

"By the order of Lorenzo de'Medici, _stand down!" _The ruler himself appeared on the scene, along with a squad of heavily armed guards. There was shuffling from above, revealing several archers just taking position on the roof.

Bocelli thought, sword still poised to kill Federico Auditore.

"If you drop your weapon, you will not be hurt." Lorenzo said calmly.

Finally, the Templar's blade fell harmlessly to the ground, and a pair of Medici guardsmen escorted him out. Immediately, Federico ran to the palazzo's wall, where Ezio lay.

"Ezio, come on, wake up!" He shook the boy forcefully, and Ezio began to cough.

"Federico?" He said weakly as his brother helped him sit up.

"I see you two have learned a few tricks from your father," Lorenzo commented as he walked by, "Very nice handiwork. We've been after this group for weeks."

"_Ser _Lorenzo," Federico began cautiously as Ezio regained his strength, "How did you know we were in danger?"

The teen smiled at them warmly, "Let's just say a little bird told me."

"A…bird?" Ezio repeated.

"Actually, it was a little girl with a big mouth," The Medici shook his head, "It took her a while to form the correct words, but luckily she relayed the message in time."

Both boys gasped, "_Claudia?" _

"The same," Lorenzo admitted, "My guard is bringing her home as we speak. And someone else you might want to talk to…"

"Ezio!"

Federico looked up and was amazed to see his father run in, breathless. He was at Ezio's side in a flash, embracing him tightly.

"Ezio…thank god you're alright…" He relinquished Ezio and hugged Federico, kissing his forehead, "My beautiful children…thank god…"

"_Padre…!" _Ezio began, but Giovanni cut them off.

"Alberto told me everything," He explained, "I left work right away. I am so proud of you both-"

"Papa!" Ezio interrupted loudly, tears in his eyes.

"What is it, _bambino?" _

"_M-m-madre…_" The child said brokenly.

Giovanni's warm exterior dropped completely and was replaced with cold fear. His eyes widened and for a moment he turned white.

"I'll be right back," He told them briefly before standing up and bolting into the house. Ezio climbed to his feet and the two children slowly followed their father inside.

The foyer was a wreck. A broken vase's splinters sprinkled the corner, a table was overturned, and the paintings were slashed. In the center of the room Giovanni sat on his knees, holding a bundle of something in his arms.

"N-no…" He whispered.

Federico and Ezio approached carefully, afraid of what they would see. The bundle was their mother, and even in the growing darkness they could smell blood.

"Maria…"

"_Padre…?" _Federico asked quietly, coming up behind his father's shoulder, "Is…is _madre _okay?"

Giovanni placed his hand on his wife's enlarged stomach, but there was no response.

Ezio sat down beside his father, staring into his mother's blank face. Her cheeks and forehead were badly bruised, and her lips were bloody and broken. Her raven hair was loose and fell around her, swallowing Giovanni's hand where it held her neck.

"Mama…" He said, "…Wake up. You never finished the story…"

Maria said nothing.

"Mama?" Ezio repeated, tears dropping down his cheeks. Soon they were all crying, the family gathered around her body, hugging it.

"Maria…" Giovanni whispered, cradling her head under his.

"Mm…" The boys paused for a moment when they heard it. A slight noise, almost like a moan. Then they watched in wonder as Maria's eyes fluttered open.

"Giovanni…?" She mouthed.

This only caused him to hug her tighter.

"Oh you're alive! _Grazie a Dio, _you're alive!"

"Some Assassin you are…can't even…take a pulse…"

Giovanni laughed.


	17. La giraffa

The room was utterly silent, save for the scratching of quill on parchment. Occasionally, bells would be heard tolling from the open window, signifying to all of _Firenze _that another hour of their lives had come and gone. Birds' calls were distant, yet sweet. The well-dressed man at the desk had been working for a long while now, and was considering taking a short break.

However, he only put down his quill and straightened when sharp knocks interrupted the peace.

"Come in," He relayed tiredly.

The door swung open and an armored figure hastily approached.

"_Il Magnifico,_" He said breathlessly, giving a bow.

"What is it?"

"_Ser,_" the guard seemed nervous, "it's the giraffe again."

Lorenzo cocked an eyebrow. "Again?"

"_Si,_" the man nodded, swallowing, "It seems a few citizens reacted…somewhat angrily when they saw it walking the streets."

Lorenzo sighed, massaging his temples, "And why couldn't the guard deal with this?"

"I'm sorry, your magnificence," He replied apologetically, "They demanded to see you in person."

The Medici could think of several snappy retorts to that comment, but held them within. _This, _he reminded himself, _is what it is to be a ruler. _

"Very well," The prince said, climbing to his feet. "Take me to them."

"Of course, _Il Magnifico._"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Zurafa was a very mild giraffe. She was humble, peaceful, and often very curious. Sometimes, Zurafa was too curious.

The best example of this was when she stuck her head through the lavish window of a nobleman's bedroom and caught him cheating on his very prestigious wife, resulting in a large argument and a broken hand.

Alas, not everyone was as happy with this outcome as the giraffe herself was. When the whole party was brought into the streets, many fingers were pointed at her, and one person actually shoved her head when she tried to snuggle them.

Finally, the man in the lavender robe appeared. This was Zurafa's Master, and she loved him very much. Of course, Zurafa loved many of these oddly dressed people very much, but Master was the best. Master was building her a very private stable, one that could even be heated during the winter. But, while it was still summer, Zurafa had been allowed to roam the streets, much to the wonder of Florence's citizens.

"It's about time!" The no-cuddling man yelled when Master drew near.

"I understand you have taken issue with my giraffe, _signore_." Master greeted.

"That animal should not be permitted to roam freely!" Angry-man spluttered, throwing a hand in Zurafa's direction while his other remained tightly bound. "Look at what it did to my hand!"

"Why don't you start from the beginning, _messer Partone,_" Master suggested.

"I was in my bedroom, minding my own-"

"Do not listen to his lies, _Il Magnifico!" _A woman's voice cried out as another well-dressed figure barreled into the street.

"Clarica, I told you to stay inside!" Angry-man shouted at her.

"Your giraffe is a wonderful creature, _signore!" _Pretty-yet-distraught-lady insisted. Her face was puffed up, as though she had been crying. "If it hadn't been for him, I would never have learned of my husband's scandalous ways!"

"That _thing _is an abomination!" Angry-man was very upset that no one could see his point. He gestured towards Zurafa again, more violently, "It broke my _maledetto mano _for the love of god!"

"_Il Magnifico, _allow me to explain the situation," Distraught-woman sniffed, "My husband was in his room with one of the maids-"

"I was showing her which part of my _medaglia _collectionI want dusted and which I don't!"

"Of course that's what you were showing her!" The man's wife sneered at him with all the hatred of a newly scorned woman.

"Why must you jump to conclusions so hastily?"

"I cannot believe you're blaming the _giraffe _for this, of all innocent creatures!"

"Well I wouldn't if it hadn't _stuck its fucking head through my window!" _

Master sighed and shook his head, drawing away from the argument and closer to Zurafa. He patted the brown prints on her chest, and she lowered her head to nuzzle his. Zurafa loved it when people petted her.

Master said nothing, and instead began slowly to walk away. A man with a shiny head standing next to him became alarmed.

"_Il Magnifico,_" he trailed after Master, "Where are you going?"

"Bartolo, was it?" Master paused, trying to recall the shiny-man's name, "Bartolo, why don't you give my giraffe a tour of the _San Giovanni _district. It's had enough of an adventure for one day."

"Are you certain, _signore?" _Shiny-head-man was very concerned.

"Yes, I'll resolve this little issue personally." Master promised. Shiny man nodded and grabbed Zurafa's six-foot-reign. A soft tug informed her that it was time to move.

Zurafa was sad to leave Master. As she lumbered past, she leaned down and gave his face a rough lick with her long purple tongue. Satisfied that Master would be here when she returned, Zurafa followed shiny-head-man through the streets of her mysterious new home with abandon.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Lorenzo heaved a great sigh and planted his face on his desk. The migraine setting in earlier had taken root, and his head positively pounded with it.

The letters were finished. All that was left to do was write two small notes to his assassin in Venice, informing him of his targets' whereabouts.

However before he attached the notes to the pigeon's leg, he added a quick scribble on the bottom, near his signature.

"Ezio," it read, "You really should come see the giraffe. Really."


	18. Log of a doctor

June 21, 1468.

The doctor was just screwing the top back on his prized jar of leeches when the yelps became audible.

"Ow, ow, ow!" The voice of a young boy cried out in pain, "Stop, Federico! It hurts too much!"

"Well how do you expect it to heal if you can't even get to the _dottore?"_ An older child replied snappishly.

With worried curiosity, the black-robed man walked towards the two struggling siblings, noting their rich finery and well-groomed heads.

"Excuse me, _bambini,_" His patient drone seemed out of place beside their grunts and gasps, "But is there anything I may do to assist you?"

"Yes, please!" The elder boy, a handsome child with auburn hair and hazel eyes, responded, "My brother and I were playing and he-well, he-he stumbled."

"_Signore,_" He turned his head to acknowledge the smaller male, who whimpered pitifully at him, "if you are truly a doctor, you must fix my leg. The pain is unbearable!"

The doctor was silent. He bent down to the child's height and examined his twisted appendage. The bone was not shattered, but curved at an impossible angle. Frankly, the injury itself was sickening to look at and it was a wonder the boy was even conscious.

"This, you received playing with your brother?" Beneath his mask the doctor's eyebrow rose, "Were you attacking each other with sledgehammers?"

"Please, _signore,_" The maimed one wailed, "no more joking. I need help!"

"_Va bene, va bene,_" He agreed, "I will aid you."

The black robed man gently wrapped his hands around the boy's waist and lifted him off the ground, setting him on the medicine cart.

"First I will have to give you something to dull the pain." He explained, pulling out a large, lethal looking syringe.

"Uh," The child swallowed and his face turned a whiter shade of pale, "Actually, the pain isn't that bad!"

"Ezio!" The older boy scowled, "Just do what he says and sit still. It's bad enough you'll have to invent something to tell _Padre!" _

"Invent something?" The doctor repeated as he filled the tube with anesthetic. At the siblings' exchanged glances, he added: "Well, you'd best improve the terrible lie you told me. If you were my children I would never let you outside again."

"_Signore, _do you really have to stick that big, sharp needle in me?" The one known as Ezio sniffed, brown eyes widening.

The doctor responded by quickly jabbing him in the arm.

"Ow!"

"Shut up and act like a man, will you, _tartaruga?" _

"Easy for you to say!" Ezio retorted as the doctor withdrew his syringe.

"Now listen close, Ezio," He told the boy, "I am not used to medicating children, so the effects of the drug may vary. But you will definitely become sleepy, so I want you to tell me now: where does it hurt the most?"

Ezio blinked, "My leg."

The doctor rolled his eyes beneath his mask, "I gathered as much."

[xxx]

September 12, 1474

"And how do you feel now?" He asked the boy softly, removing the glove on his hand in order to feel the skin of his forehead.

The eleven-year-old shrugged, though the look in his eyes was clouded, "No better than usual."

He pressed his palm against the child's face and sighed. The fever had faded, but that did not mean it wouldn't return. Petruccio Auditore was one of his trickiest patients.

"_Dottore?" _The woman's voice was very guarded as she entered the room, fingers meshing together idly in her lap, "How is he?"

"He should be alright," The doctor answered, straightening and slipping the glove back over his hand. "But I want him to continue taking the tonic, and a bit more rest should help."

"_Grazie," _The aging lady bowed her head, then held her hand out to her son. "Come, Petruccio. Say thank you to the kind doctor."

"Thank you, _messere,_" Petruccio mumbled to the floor.

He smiled, and was about to reply when knocks sounded from the door.

"Come in!" The doctor called, pulling his mask from the table and strapping it on hastily.

The door quietly inched open, allowing some of the violence of the storm in. Two figures, each one soaked and chattering, stepped inside.

"Ezio?" Maria asked, eyes wide, "Federico?"

"M-m-mother!" The former grinned widely; one might say crazily, "What a coincidence meeting you here!"

"Ah, if it isn't the _Fratelli _Auditore," The doctor chuckled as he took in their sopping bodies, "What's broken this time?"

"Ezio," Maria's expression narrowed, "Have you hurt yourself again?"

"No!" The fifteen-year-old replied quickly.

"And you, Federico," Maria whirled to her eldest child, staring him down, "What's your part in this? Aren't you supposed to be at the bank?"

"They let me off," The youth answered.

"In the middle of a storm?" Maria marveled, then to herself added, "_Dio caro, _how did I manage to raise such horrendous liars?"

"_Madonna _Auditore," The doctor interjected, "Please do not worry yourself. I assure you I will cure your sons, no matter what the issue is."

"I don't think you can cure the disease they have, doctor," Maria snorted, "It's called 'egomania'."

"Nevertheless," He laughed, and then recovered, "The best thing for you to do now is to take Petruccio home before the rain gets worse. You don't need a cold, amongst other things."

"Yes," Maria agreed, "Of course. Thank you again,_ dottore."_

"It is my pleasure." As he spoke, the woman pulled on her coat and handed Petruccio an umbrella. When they opened the door to step outside, however, Maria snapped to her sons:

"Neither of you has heard the last of this!"

The door slam was forgotten below the sound of hope leaving both sets of lungs.

"Now," The black robed man began, removing his mask, "What's happened?"

Federico elbowed him, and Ezio reluctantly pulled his hand from his pocket.

"Oh dear…" The appendage was swollen and bruised, and two of its fingers were grossly bent out of shape. "Ezio, how do these things happen to you?"

"Vieri de'Pazzi and I had a…disagreement." The teenager winced when the doctor prodded his inflamed flesh.

"And so he decided to torture you through cruel and unusual methods?" He led on skeptically. Then he turned his attention to the eldest Auditore. "And what's wrong with you?"

"Fortunately, nothing," Federico replied, "But my brother does not have the money to pay for your services at the moment, and I don't trust him to fish the funds from my purse."

"So you came in person?" The doctor continued, ignoring Ezio's hisses of pain as he popped the bones back in place.

"_Si,_" Federico nodded, "Thought I doubt you'll charge us much anyway. Ezio's injury isn't as bad as the usual."

"No, it's not." The doctor granted, now soothing the irritated skin with salves.

"_Buongiornio_," Ezio muttered, "I am a person, not a centerpiece."

"With the amount we pay for you daily, you might as well be." Federico teased.

"Go fuck yourself."

[xxx]

February 5, 1486

It had been another slow day. The doctor stood patiently beside the same stall he'd worked at for the past twenty years, watching the crowd swim past. There had been no customers. Some might consider that a good thing, and he figured it was just as well since his aged bones were always bothering him.

So when a scream of horror suddenly pierced the air, his senses heightened and he scanned the area anxiously.

What met his eyes was a limping man, bleeding heavily as he staggered towards the stall. The hood was familiar, but as the doctor rushed to his side, the figure seemed more alien than ever before.

"Talk to me, Ezio," He muttered as he half carried, half dragged the man inside, where there was a table.

At first, he said nothing intelligible. As the doctor pressed medicated cloth deep into his wounds, Ezio mumbled, "…Ambush. Saw me…Lorenzo…" Then slipped out of consciousness.

"I swear, child," the black robed man shook himself as he fought to save the Auditore's life, "You were born with a talent for self-destruction."

In a few hours, Ezio was awake again, but very groggy. It was then that the _dottore _was able to hear the whole story.

"I thought you were in _Venezia,_" He asked.

"I am," Ezio nodded weakly, "But…It's difficult to destroy a conspiracy in one state and defend its victims in another."

"So you're here to protect the Medici?"

The Assassin blinked hard, removing the glaze from his eyes, "Yes. I succeeded in killing my target, but he was prepared for me…Not even I can handle six brutes at once…"

"Brutes?" The doctor repeated, eyebrows raised.

Ezio laughed humorlessly. "A nickname Federico and I bestowed upon them. Giants of men, with little but the rocks in their heads to guide their strength."

At the mention of the deceased Auditore, the room fell into silence. Ezio's head slowly fell back against his pillow, and he stared up at the ceiling.

"His birthday is coming up."

"What?" The doctor frowned; half assuming the comment was purely anesthetic-based.

"Federico's birthday. I never got his present to him that year."

"Ezio-" Whenever he started, he couldn't be stopped.

"I was really going to buy him something great," Ezio continued, "But I kept spending the money. I thought, 'what's the use? He'll always have another birthday, and I can buy him something then.'"

There were no words that could stand up to the younger man's loss.

"This year, I'm going to give it to him."

"Give what to him, Ezio?" When he looked down, the doctor noted that Ezio's eyes had once again gone glossy, and his lids fluttered.

"The present," He explained quietly, "I'm not going back to that _maledetta _field and putting down another _cazzo _bouquet of flowers for the sixteenth year in a row."

The doctor refrained from pointing out that Ezio had never purchased a bouquet of flowers in his life, and that his brothers' deaths had only occurred ten years ago.

"And so what present will you give him?" He prodded.

For a moment, Ezio stared at him, confused. Then he answered:

"Three words: I loved you."

The silence returned, and he gently patted the younger man's arm.

"Go to sleep now, Ezio. Just go to sleep."


	19. Friends in strange places

Venetian noon had been steady for the past few days. Although the summer was coming to a close, there had been no violent rainstorms yet. However, from his perch on the rooftops, Ezio could tell that large black cloud meant business. He would not be too surprised to awaken tomorrow to the rumbling of thunder.

"Ezio," The young man turned at the sound of his name, nodding at the familiar form of his friend.

"I'm glad you came, Tomaso," The Assassin said as the thief approached. "Do you have those documents?"

"Yes, one moment," The elder man replied, digging into his bag for the list of Templar donors.

It happened so quickly. And at first there was no pain- only surprise. A thin sound met the air, like a damp hiss. When Ezio looked down the hilt of a knife protruded from his abdomen.

"You _Assassini,_" Tomaso's voice was different, warped, as he coldly continued, "Always placing your trust in the wrong people."

Blood spilled from his stomach and began to tickle his tongue. Though he did not understand why, his knees were wobbling. Who had done this to him?

"It must be a hereditary thing," Ezio was hardly aware of the Templar's hands wrapping around his shoulders, dragging him closer to the tiles' edge, "After all, your father made the same mistake."

Below them, the canal flowed softly. Tomaso did not bother to remove his weapon from the Assassin's body as he looked into his paling face.

"_Requiescat in pace, _boy."

And for a moment, Ezio was flying. Tumbling through the wind. The water was a cold slap to the back of his head.

And then there was nothing.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Come on, Brianna!" A young girl's voice taunted breathlessly, "Honest to _Dio, _you are such a slowpoke!"

"Hey!" The other child protested as the two pulled to a stop and doubled up, panting.

When she had sufficient oxygen, the smaller female yelled accusingly, "You said the Lord's name in vain! You said the Lord's name in vain! You're gonna get spanked!"

Her companion only rolled her eyes and sat herself down beside one of the canal's gondola tethers.

"Natalia," The younger girl said quietly, ruby-like eyes wide with curiosity, "Aren't you scared you'll get your dress dirty, sitting by the canal?"

Natalia shook her head, causing ripples in her long dark hair. She couldn't have been older than eight years.

"We've already spent several _hours _trying to escape _Zio _Teo. Why not experience the freedom of sitting somewhere messy for a while?"

Brianna nodded enthusiastically, "Okay! If that's what we're doing, I want to put my feet in the water!"

"Good idea!"

And so the two children removed their expensive, pinch-toe shoes and silk hosiery, tossing them into a heap beside the gondola tether. They bundled their skirts up and slid their tiny feet into the lazy man-made river, watching in awe as the water snaked between their toes.

Brianna giggled, "It tickles."

Natalia smiled in agreement, but when her sibling let out a gasp the mood changed.

"Natalia, look!" She yelled and pointed upwards. Natalia's head whirled to watch:

"That man is falling from the sky!"

Indeed, only a few meters across from them a hooded figure tumbled from the sky, hitting the canal water with a loud splash, and effectively dousing the two girls.

"Eeee!" Brianna shrieked as her dress suddenly became less hospitable.

"Hey, look!" Natalia crawled onto her hands and knees, peering as far as she could into the crashing waters, "Brianna, he's sinking!"

"Sinking?" A second passed before the younger girl also went on all fours, "Why doesn't he swim?"

"Maybe he can't!" The taller girl exclaimed fearfully, "Maybe he's drowning!"

"N-N-Natalia!" Brianna whimpered, tears of panic bubbling in her eyes, "What are we gonna do?"

"Call for _Zio _Teo!" Natalia instructed, and both children shouted at the top of their lungs:

"_Zio! Zio! HELP US!" _

It did not take the curly-haired man long to appear. He came barreling down the alley, bursting into the canal way shocked to see his two nieces afraid and dripping wet.

"Girls, what's happened?" He asked quickly, embracing Brianna's trembling form.

"_Zio, _a man fell into the water, and he can't swim!" Natalia explained loudly, "You need to save him, now!"

Teo stood and examined the river's surface for a moment, "_Capisco, _I see him."

As the uncle began to remove his boots and vest, Brianna sniveled, "He won't drown, right _Zio?" _

"I hope not, _piccola,_" Teo replied before diving into the water.

Through the murkiness of the canal it was difficult to tell, but the man did not seem large. Why was he sinking so fast?

And, as a member of the Venetian guard, Teodore knew blood when he saw it. Whoever this man was, he was bleeding profusely. Teo kicked deeper until he was close enough to identify the problem: the stranger carried an arsenal of weapons, and wore metal on his shoulders.

As swiftly as he could, the officer unbuckled the armor and released the belt that bore the weapons, allowing them to drift to the water's bottom. He fastened his arms around the man's waist and propelled them upwards.

Finally, their heads broke the surface, gasping. Teo managed a mouthful of oxygen before he was pushed back underwater. In a bobbing fashion, they reached the canal's stairway, where he could safely pull the man onto the stone.

"_Santa merda!" _Teodore swore as his eyes locked on the knife buried in the stranger's stomach. However a thin pulse ran in his wrist, so he must still have been alive…

"_Zio?" _Brianna whispered softly, looking down upon the man in horror.

"Don't look, girls!" The guard called out as he ripped the weapon from its snug placement.

"_Zio, _why isn't he breathing?" Natalia asked, ignoring her uncle's command to look away.

"He's not breathing?" Teo had to fight hysteria. "_Cazzo! _He must have water in his lungs! Natalia, help me turn him over!"

The uncle and niece hurriedly turned the man onto his side and beat on his back. A harsh cough broke the silence and a large amount of saltwater burst from his mouth, but the stranger still did not breathe.

"_Zio, _now what?" Natalia cried desperately.

Teodore's mind was racing, thinking of everything, _anything _he could try. Finally, he came with one solution, however strange.

"Natalia!" He ordered, "When I say three, I want you to take a deep breath and blow it into his mouth, alright?"

"What?"

"He'll die if we don't try this, _piccina! _Just do it, ok? I hope to God this works…"

With no time to consider his actions, Teo slammed his fists over the man's lungs. "One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

Natalia sucked in a breath and then dropped to her knees, messily connected her tiny mouth with his. She exhaled and pulled her head back up.

Teodore swallowed, "Again!"

Brianna watched frightfully, tears in her eyes and fingers in her mouth.

"One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

The small girl's cheeks inflated like balloons and she gave the dead man whatever air she could.

Finally, he began to sputter. Uncle and niece alike lit up as the stranger began to breathe, albeit raggedly.

"Hello! Hello!" Natalia shouted, "_Messere! _Can you hear me?"

His eyes opened and stared at her, unfocused.

"T-Tomaso," He mumbled, "Tomaso…he…"

"Please, _messere," _Teo snapped his fingers next to the man's head, keeping him awake, "Do not speak, just listen to the sound of my voice."

"I-I am…bleeding." He said.

"Yes, we are going to help you. What is your name?"

"E-Ezio…" He sighed as his hooded head rolled back onto the wet stone.

"Ezio…?" Teo frowned- then he realized. This was no ordinary man.

He had just saved the life of Italy's most wanted criminal!

"_Zio, _go and get a doctor!" Natalia nudged him, "What are you waiting for?"

"Natalia, I do not think…" but his thought ended there. He was not about to tell his sister's child that he would not help a dying man. It wasn't that simple.

"Go!" Natalia repeated, and this time he went.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"That will hold, for now at least. He got lucky- it was the water that would have killed him. This wound was inflicted hastily, improperly. It is shallow, and will heal over time."

"Thank you, _dottore. _I found this pouch of florins with him- take what you need."

The atmosphere was much more restful now. Ezio had not regained consciousness since he divulged his name, but it was made clear to the girls that he would survive.

"Natalia," Brianna whispered, "You kissed a boy."

"No I didn't," The elder girl retorted, "It wasn't a kiss."

"Yes it was! It _so _was!" Brianna crowed.

"Alright, _bambini," _Teo approached his nieces with an exhausted grin, "Our friend Ezio is going to be ok. Now, why don't we all go home?"

"Well, what's going to happen to him now?" Brianna wondered.

Teo shrugged and looked away nervously, "He has…relatives, that are coming to help him."

Natalia frowned, "…I don't think he does, _Zio. _And we shouldn't leave him here."

Brianna's ruby-colored eyes suddenly brightened and she gasped, "Can we take him home with us?"

"No." _Zio _answered immediately.

"Then why don't you take him home, _Zio?" _Natalia suggested, "Just until he wakes up."

Teodore sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The farther away he got from _L'Assassino, _the better. But how could he deny his innocent nieces? He couldn't bear to lie to them… And once the Assassin woke up, he would fare well on his own. Perhaps it could even be considered fortunate that the country's most dangerous man should owe you a favor. But this man was a killer…How did he know whether or not he would…?

"Fine," Teodore agreed, "he will stay at my house until he's better, but _not a moment longer, _ok? And do not tell your father."

"Yay!" Brianna jumped up and hugged her uncle, "I want to come and visit him every day!"

Natalia smiled bashfully, "Thank you, _Zio." _

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When Ezio's eyes finally reopened, he was quite convinced he was dead. His worn and battered body rested on a blissfully soft mattress. Gone were the shreds of fabric that were once his tunic and robes. His throat felt dry and blistered, but it did not hold even a drop of seawater. He lay buried under several quilts, and they pressed down on him pleasantly, triggering a happy memory of his mother tucking him in to sleep.

In fact, Ezio would have been rather content to return to his peaceful slumber if the child's face had not been so incredibly familiar.

"You're awake!" She shouted, causing him to wince. "Oh, how wonderful! Would you like some tea, _Messer _Ezio?"

Cautiously, Ezio sat up and nodded. His throat could use some tea.

The girl handed him a pewter cup, lined with ridiculously drawn flowers. He took the teacup and couldn't help but notice it was empty.

"Drink up!" She assured him by tipping back her own empty cup and sipping away. Ezio smiled drily. She must be very young indeed.

When the girl had finished her tea, she remarked, "You've been asleep for a long time, but I've been bringing you tea every day. Natalia doesn't come anymore- she says she doesn't care whether or not you get better."

Suddenly, the child leaned closer and her dark eyes narrowed, as though she were about to confess a terrible secret.

"She says you're a bad man. She says you've killed people."

Ezio's brows arched and he turned his head slightly, intrigued, "And do you believe this as well, little one?"

She shook her head.

"If you were a real bad killer, you would have been able to stop that man before he stabbed you." She reasoned. "So you must have been friends with him. And killers don't have friends."

His jaw nearly hit the floor. Tomaso's betrayal! But how could this child, barely out of diapers, have known about it, much less understood it?

"_Bambina,_" He asked gently, "What is your name?"

"My name?" She repeated with a soft laugh, "That's an easy question. My name is Brianna."

Ezio smiled.

"Brianna _Barbarigo." _


	20. Winter

(_**AN-**____**for**____**Shelby,**____**dev**____**poisonaffairs.**____**Happy**____**birthday!)**_

Winter, 1198

"There," The young man smiled as he tugged his child's scarf up around his nose, "Now don't touch it."

"_Kehn,__Abba._"

As the adult straightened, he felt another snowflake drop onto his shoulder. Glancing upward, he noticed the fat crystals were falling faster. If they didn't finish up soon, they'd have to ride home in a blizzard.

He motioned for his son to follow and began to walk briskly down the street. Al Yadi wasn't a particularly large town, but it was easy to get lost in. The establishment lay a generous number of miles north of Masyaf; perhaps an afternoon or two of riding's worth, and boasted many similarly crafted buildings. In fact, each one appeared to be an identical box, housing an identical family that eyed the duo as they took their every step. The young father did not care for it.

After a few more minutes walking, the boy spoke up, "_Abba,_where are we going?"

His companion sighed.

"I've told you several times already. We're just here to meet a friend of mine. Then we'll go home."

For a while, the child was silent and they continued their exploration. The father, wrapped in thick white robes and a black scarf, would occasionally poke his head down an alley, then shake it and proceed onward.

"What does your friend look like?" The little one queried from beneath his hood.

"I am not certain," His guardian admitted, "Dark robes, a blue belt, light skin-"

"Like that man over there?"

Eyes wide, the adult followed his son's gaze to find his target sitting nonchalantly on a bench, staring at him.

"Come," He muttered as he grabbed the boy's hand, marching swiftly through the growing snow.

The man they approached seemed uneasy. He wore grey, ratty looking robes and a monk's cap, though he did not appear religious. His skin was almost as white as the ice around them, and his nose was long and pointed.

"Are you…?" He began, looking up at the newcomer with fear, "D-Did Altair send you?"

The child opened his mouth to answer, but his father hushed him, "I do not know this 'Altair' of whom you speak."

"Of course you do!" The pale one insisted, "You wear the garb of his pupils."

For a few moments neither man spoke, and the wind rustled between them.

"What do they call you?" The young man asked.

"Maurice Josephson-" He replied hesitantly, but stopped himself when the stranger leaned closer.

"Listen well, Maurice," The father whispered, "Walk down this street thirty paces and you will come to a courtyard. A man in a white hood will be watching you. Announce that you would like to go for a ride today, and he will appear. You are to follow this Assassin back to Masyaf. You will arrive safely. Once you are ready, you will tell us what you know of the Templar's dealings."

What was left of the blood in his cheeks fled as Maurice's throat went dry. Seconds ticked by, yet the man could not find the will to speak.

"Do you _understand,_Maurice." It was not a question.

"Yes, sir." Maurice stammered and leapt from his seat, bowing, "T-Thank you."

The father and son watched as he turned and ran down the road, bare feet stumbling on the heaps of freezing water. Soon they were walking again, and the child asked:

"Why didn't you tell him your name, _Abba?__" _

"You'll understand when you're older, Darim. Now stop playing with your scarf. Your mother will kill me if you catch cold."

After a few more minutes walking, the snow picked up again. The flakes were only getting thicker, and now the wind was getting involved. All in all, the weather was taking a rather nasty turn. Altair had just elected to head back to the stables when a messenger grabbed his attention.

"Stay here," Altair ordered Darim, "I'll be right back."

"Master!" The boy called, bowing as he approached, "Jamal has just departed for Masyaf. He wishes you to know that all is going well, and the information procured thus far is accurate."

"Perfect," The young master nodded, "Thank you, Adif."

With that the novice bowed again and set off for his bureau, mission completed.

"Now, Darim, it's time we went-"

When the Assassin turned around, the five-year-old was nowhere to be seen.

"-Home."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

_Do not panic._

For a long time, this had been the Master-Assassin's personal motto. It had done well by him in times of crisis, allowing his head to become cool and his thoughts lucid.

This, however, was not one of those times.

"Darim!" He shouted into the storm. His call echoed against the tall and identical buildings. There was no reply.

Frustration building inside him, Altair fought to keep himself on task. Giving into fear and panic would only make it harder to find the poor boy, he reasoned with himself. But with snowdrifts blowing all around, the cold nipping defiantly through his scarf and coat, and the moon beginning its ascension, clear-headedness was difficult to obtain.

"Darim!" The anxious father screamed into the wind.

He knew better than to expect a response.

His mind, growing tired of playing with the child's many different horrible fates, decided to turn over to Altair own safety. If the cold didn't kill him, Maria surely would. How would he explain to her how he lost him? What could he possibly say in his own defense? Yes, it had partially been her idea that he take Darim with, but that was only because the father and son had spent too long apart and wanted a chance to be together again.

Besides, this job was supposed to be easy!

"DAR-" Altair's cry was abruptly ended by a blow to the back of his head.

The Assassin tumbled to the slippery ground, dazed. While trying to clear the blackness from his vision and the sharp pain from his skull, he heard a shout.

"Aha! Look what we've caught, Oded!"

Altair struggled to sit up, but a heavy boot pinned his chest to the icy ground. He blinked hard, clearing the snow from his eyelashes as he peered angrily at the face above his.

It was an elder man. A dark scarf covered his face, but the bandit pulled it down and muttered:

"Your money, boy. Hand it over."

Altair would've laughed, had the situation been different. At the moment however, his mind made a connection- these men clearly had a part in Darim's disappearance. This must be a ransom effort.

"Where is he?" The Master-Assassin demanded, though he did not sound quite as intimidating as he'd hoped.

"Where is who?" A different thug asked.

"You know!" Altair spat, fighting against the weight on his torso, "My son! What have you done with him?"

The old man shook his head, "We aren't here for your child, whoever he is. We want your money and your clothes and we want them _now.__" _

"Fine," Altair grunted as a slight click sounded from his wrist, "If you'd rather do this the difficult way…"

A scream bit the air as Altair buried his hidden blade into the man's knee, where it plunged through the other side. The _shoded_fell over, clutching his bleeding appendage.

Altair jumped to his feet, drawing a short blade from his back. There were three other men, all sporting looks of shock.

"Don't just stand there!" The injured one yelled, "Kill him!"

One of the braver thugs charged forward, and Altair dispatched him with a throwing knife. The Assassin then threw himself on the man closet, short blade twirling through the air, slicing his arms, chest, and neck.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the old man attempting to rise. Altair quickly finished him off with a hidden blade to the jugular.

The last highwayman's hands shot up, trembling.

"Stop! Mercy, please!"

"_Where__is__my__son?__" _Altair growled. The hand gripping his blade was nearly as white as the snow around them.

"I-I don't know!" The other man admitted.

"How unfortunate." There was another click.

"No, please!" He sank to his knees, eyes wide with horror, "I s-saw a child run past here a few moments ago!"

Altair paused, "Which way did he go?"

The mercenary lifted a shaking finger, "T-That way, _A-adoni!_Now please, have mercy on your servant!"

His hidden blade retracted. Altair turned on his heels and ran as quickly as he could in the direction _ha-shoded_had indicated. The storm was definitely getting worse. Soon the Master-Assassin would not even be able to see the road before him.

"DARIM!" He called out, voice growing hoarse. Still, Altair continued to run. Eagle Vision revealed that his boy was close, but the snow blew in his eyes and blurred everything.

It wasn't fear of Maria that compelled him now. On some level, it was déjà vu. He had been here before- barreling through the streets of some place completely unfamiliar to him, screaming the name of his loved one.

But Adha never answered him.

"Stop it," He told himself, breath becoming labored from the struggle of moving forward against the treacherous wind that would not pick one direction. "Don't think like that."

And yet he did. What if Darim had been abducted? Maurice must have betrayed them and told the Templars of their meeting. But how could they have known that he would bring his child? Was there a spy in their midst?

The cold had numbed his hands. Very soon, he knew it would take his boots as well. The ice continued to build all around him, and before long he was lost in a white world of his own.

Unable to go on, he fell, white fists sinking in white snow.

"Darim," He whispered.

_Abba!_

It was too cold. Far too cold. So cold it burned.

_ABBA!_

His mind shuddered to think of Darim in this same numbing cold. Then he realized it wasn't just his mind that shook. Darim…His first child. Would he ever see him again?

_Savta!__I__found__him!_

And then it all went dark, and Altair thought of nothing at all.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

When he opened his eyes, it was to the kindly gaze of an old woman.

He moved his lips to speak, but she interrupted him.

"It's alright, you're safe now. A mite cold out there, isn't it?"

"_Savta!_Is he awake yet?"

"Quiet little one. It's only been a few minutes since we brought him inside. The poor man is probably freezing."

"Da…rim…"

A young child's voice, muffled, asked, "How did he know Darim's name, _Savta?__"_

"Please, Diza, silence," Altair slowly sat up, and the old woman handed him a bowl. She smiled, "Drink this."

The Assassin nodded mutely and lifted the soup to his lips. As he drank, two children approached, wrapped up completely in wool coats and scarves. Altair had many questions, but withheld them and focused on the deep feeling of warmth flooding his body.

One of the small bundles of wool walked to the old woman, who began to unwrap it. Altair watched curiously as first a dark-haired head appeared, then two green eyes, then a pink pair of lips. Slowly, the form of a little girl appeared.

When she was dressed in only a tunic, she ran to his bedside.

"Do you know Darim?" She grinned at him.

Altair's eyes widened and he put the bowl down. He watched the next small figure dematerialize and suddenly his son stood there, giggling as the old woman's fingers tickled him.

"Darim!" Altair stood abruptly, wavering a little on his feet. He embraced the child and lifted him into the air.

"_Abba,_put me down!" The boy sounded quite indignant, but his father only smiled, "You're cold!"

"You are this child's father?" The old woman asked as soon as Altair replaced Darim on his feet.

"Yes," Altair said, "Thank you so-"

The old lady suddenly leaned forward and slapped him. Altair staggered a drop, surprise wiping the smile off his face.

"Shame on you for leaving your son in such weather! What were you thinking?"

"It was an accident-"

"And then nearly killing yourself trying to find him! I swear by Allah, you are the most terrible father!"

Altair frowned at the woman, but said nothing else. Slowly, he turned to his son and asked.

"Darim, why did you run away?"

"Eh?"

"I told you to stay put. Remember?"

Darim's cheeks flushed, and the boy looked away.

"I know, _Abba._But I saw Diza-" he gestured to the female child, "And these boys were picking on her. I had to help!"

"You helped her?" Altair's brows rose and he spared the green-eyed girl 'Diza' a second glance.

"_Kehn,__Abba,_" Darim nodded, "I scared those boys off real bad!"

"What did you do?" Altair felt a smile tug at his lips, but he didn't let it win.

"I told them my father was the Master-Assassin of Masyaf!"

Altair felt his breath hitch, but the old woman merely laughed.

"Your child has quite the imagination," She explained. "But you might want to instruct him in controlling it."

There was a comfortable silence while Altair smiled nervously at the grandmother. He sat with his back against the bedside, spreading his legs on the floor. Darim came to sit in his lap, and Diza followed him.

"Can we go home now?" The five-year-old queried.

"No, child," Altair answered, "We'll need to wait until morning now."

Darim sighed.

"It's alright, Darim!" Diza said, "I'll play with you, so you won't get bored. _Savta_'s a good storyteller, too. You'll see, you'll like it here!"

"What am I going to tell your mother?" Altair chuckled, tussling his son's hair.

The little boy only smiled and hugged his father.

Glossary:

_Kehn,__Abba-_yes, father.

_Abba-_father.

_Ha-shoded-_the robber/criminal

_Shoded-_criminal

_Adoni-_lit. 'my master', used often to mean 'sir'

_Savta-_grandmother


	21. Spaniard

It was not unusual to spot the Grand Master Assassin, Ezio Auditore, wandering the corridors of the Bayezid district in his free time. No matter what location he'd had in mind when he'd set out, he always felt himself drawn to the bookshop…

Because the bookshop was such a comfy little place. Ezio could easily forget who he was when he sat down in that wonderfully plush seat with that daring old tome written by a fellow Assassin, he later learned.

And he had to admit he enjoyed Sofia's company. The young bookkeeper was such a change of pace from the somberness that made up his daily routine, it was almost addicting. He'd always meant to come more often (if anything, just to escape Yusuf's cruel sense of humor), but work would always get in the way…And work was the last thing he wanted to expose his little getaway to.

So today was one of those days; Ezio had begun to wander, allowing his feet to traverse the beautiful streets of Constantinople on their own, when he found himself in the plaza that housed Sofia's shop.

However, there was a new development waiting to greet him. As he approached the establishment's entrance, his eyes fell upon a group of children inspecting the nearest shelf of books. Sofia often kept a few samples outside, to entice potential customers- but it was rare to see someone actually taking the bait, much less a round of visitors this young.

The child who caught his attention was a little girl, five or six tops. She was trying desperately to reach a tome on the higher shelf, boosting herself on the tips of her feet. Her sleeves fell down around her elbows, revealing straining, olive-tinted arms.

Ezio chuckled and walked over, happy to see a little one with such a keen interest in learning. He plucked the book from its place and carefully handed it to the child.

"Is this what you want?" He offered with a smile.

The girl nodded excitedly and grabbed the volume with both hands. A flutter rose in the Assassin's chest when she nearly fell from the weight, but he relaxed when she recovered, stabilizing herself in an amusing fashion.

Despite her minor balance issues, the child still managed to bow respectfully, "_Tessekur__ederiz,__efendim!__" __(thank__you,__sir!)_

Ezio laughed quietly to himself before answering with a nod, "_Di__niente,_little one." (it's nothing)

The girl gasped suddenly and her eyes widened. The Assassin was alarmed as well, especially when she shoved the book back in his face.

"What's wrong-?" He tried to ask her, but she jumped out of his reach.

She stared at him with an expression of abject horror, and then began to back away slowly.

"_Sf__…_" She whispered, "_Sfarad!__" __(Spaniard!)_

Ezio furrowed his brow, "What?"

But the little one had nothing more to say to him. She turned on her heels and stumbled away as fast as possible.

That week's visit to the shop was not as restful as he'd imagined. When Ezio entered, he was disappointed to find Sofia busily scribbling at her desk. She hardly acknowledged his arrival, only assured him that she'd be with him in a moment. Ezio sighed and picked up his copy of Alighieri's work, resigning himself to a lonely hour in his chair.

However barely ten minutes had gone by before Sofia interrupted him.

"Alright," She said softly, "Something is bothering you."

Ezio snapped the book shut and leaned back. He couldn't help a wry smile, "Nothing escapes you, I see."

"You'd better just tell me," The librarian tsked, "I'm not going to sit here and guess." She paused before adding, "…For too long."

"Fine, if you so wish to know," Ezio sighed deeply, "I believe I frightened one of your customers earlier."

"What happened?"

"A small child, a girl. I helped her pick out a book, but when I gave it to her she ran away weeping."

Sofia's gaze lowered to her desk, and she folded her hands in her lap, "I see…"

"Sofia, do you know this _bambina?__" _(_child/girl)_

The redhead laughed humorlessly, "I know many of her kind."

Ezio tilted his head to the side curiously, which drew further explanation:

"Ezio," The librarian inhaled before looking at him sadly, "That child…She comes from a family of refugees that live down the street from me."

"Refugees?" The Assassin repeated, "From what?"

Sofia's gaze returned to her lap, "From Spain. I don't know much, but… From what she has told me, unspeakable things are happening there."

"You've spoken to her?"

"_Si,_on many occasions," She nodded, "But whenever she hears Italian, she becomes distressed. She mistakes it for Spanish."

Ezio considered. For the past decade, he had been sending his pupils to Spain, evacuating many victims of the Inquisition. Many, but apparently not enough. He had not seen the carnage firsthand, but the reports he received from his students were… gruesome, to say the least.

How could such an ordeal have slipped his mind?

"I understand," He answered finally.

"It is such a sorry state of affairs," Sofia sighed, picking up her quill and returning to her work, "But I've found that reading with the children can…relieve their torment, if only a few pieces at time. The older ones are still afraid of me."

Ezio nodded solemnly. Sofia fell silent after that, and he found he no longer had the stomach for Alighieiri's poems.

[xxx]

It was another week before Ezio could find the time to return to the old trading post. As he walked into the square, he noticed the girl outside once more, poking around the books. She had her eyes set on a tome at the top of the ledge, and the cogs in her head were deciding how best to retrieve it. Ezio quietly slipped past her into the shop.

Sofia was rearranging the couch when he stepped in, but he put a finger to his lips when she made to greet him.

"_La__bambina,_" He whispered, "She's out there again."

"So?" Sofia raised her brows, laughing at the sight of the old man hiding from the little girl.

Ezio turned to her with a grin, "I'm going to need your help for something."

[xxx]

Yafa couldn't decide. She liked the one with the pictures, but the other one had beautiful handwriting. Though she was young, Yafa had always found herself partial to pretty handwriting- swirling letters, perfectly round dots, and thick pen strokes were her favorite qualities. Her father had the best penmanship in the world…But she didn't like to think about that.

The real issue at hand was the fact that they were both beyond her reach. She had already considered climbing, and the last time she'd tried (two days ago) the entire shelf had nearly collapsed on her. However this time, she'd brought a stool…

The dark haired girl was about to put her plan into affect when someone called her name.

"Yafa," She turned to meet Sofia, who approached her with a bright smile. The librarian bent down to the child's level, resting her hand on her knee. "Can I help you with something?"

Yafa thought for a moment. She liked Sofia; Sofia was quite nice. She would trust Sofia, and so responded positively to her question.

"_Harika_," (excellent) Sofia replied, "Now, which book would you like?"

Yafa placed her finger in her mouth and sucked. She found this method to be most helpful when trying to solve a dilemma. Finally, the book with the pretty handwriting won out, and she indicated as such to her teacher.

"Ah, a good choice," Sofia agreed, climbing to her feet. The bookkeeper strained herself, but couldn't seem to reach the top ledge. The longer Yafa watched, the more worried she became. Sofia had been able to reach all the books before, what had changed?

"Sofia," She pulled on the older female's skirt, forced to eject her finger from her tongue, "_Ma__ha__baaya?__" _(what's wrong?)

Sofia shook her head, looking down on the child apologetically, "I cannot reach, _hamudi_ (sweetie). But give me just a moment; I will get help."

Yafa watched her friend disappear into the bookshop. The immigrant waited patiently for a few seconds, but grew restless when Sofia did not return immediately. She began to kick at the dirt, pace, and eventually turn in circles. It seemed like years before Sofia reappeared.

Sofia beckoned again, and Yafa excitedly ran to her. But her happiness faded when she recognized the stranger…

Yafa's breath hitched in her throat, producing a ragged gasp. Fearfully, the child grabbed Sofia's hand and ran behind her skirts, squeezing both eyes shut.

"Yafa," Sofia laughed, "He isn't going to hurt you!"

Confusion raced through the six-year-old's mind. He wore a hood, like the men from the church did. He had a beard, like the old man at the church did. He spoke Spanish, and he had an air of danger around him. Clearly this man was not to be trusted.

Bewilderment made way for determination- Yafa had to protect Sofia!

"Sofia, run away!" Yafa shouted, sprinting as quickly as she could while dragging her mentor's hand.

However, she hadn't expected her sandals to leave the ground and her waist to be ensnared by two large hands. When Yafa opened her eyes, she was staring into the gentle face of an elderly man.

Her first instinct was to panic, but his embrace was not a threatening one. The hooded stranger hushed her, and she slowly began to calm down.

"Yafa," Sofia tried again, placing a hand on the tall man's shoulder, "This is my friend, Ezio. He is from _Italia._Not _Sfarad._" (Spain)

"_I__…__taliyah?__"_ Yafa imitated, almost curiously.

He smiled.

"_Evet,_ From _Italia._" (yes)

Finally, Ezio replaced Yafa on her feet. Sofia offered her hand to the girl, who accepted it in a sort of shell-shocked haze.

"I believe," Ezio cleared his throat and removed a large square object from behind his back, "You wanted to see this."

Yafa dropped Sofia's hand and grabbed onto the tome gleefully, flipping through page after page of beautiful script. But how had he gotten it while he was holding her?

"Why don't we take that inside?" Sofia suggested, patting her small friend on the back. Yafa nodded and raced to the shop's door. She stopped to turn and wave at her new friend before heading in. The hooded man smiled back, glad to have been accepted.

"Looks like you've made a new acquaintance," The librarian joked as she returned to her study.

Ezio chuckled quietly and followed his companion inside, glad to have something other than Alighieri to focus on tonight.


	22. Bittersweet

Duccio was not bitter.

No, there was no way he was bitter. How could he possibly be bitter when the taste of wine in his mouth was so sweet? How could he feel unhappy when his voyages in Constantinopoli had shown him nothing but fortune? Could Ezio Auditore say the same?

Ah, Ezio Auditore. The name crossed Duccio's mind darkly, like lightning through a storm cloud; it seemed all his troubles began with that despicable family.

In the same sense that Duccio was not bitter, he was also not envious when he happened upon them together in the street. He knew her name- Sofia Sartor. A few days before their…misleading encounter at the docks, Duccio had met her at her bookshop.

The Lucan had just been going about his business when a small child snatched the pouch of _akce _straight off his belt. Enraged, Duccio had chased the little devil all across Istanbul until finally they both grew tired. The child ran to an antique bookstore, apparently seeking refuge behind its narrow entrance.

"Nowhere to run!" Duccio had snarled as angrily as he could while still struggling to breathe. But just then, the most beautiful creature appeared.

Duccio straightened as her long skirts brushed the doorframe. He watched in awe as her soft, delicate, milky white hand took the child's dirty, brown one and she spoke:

"_Scusi, messere. _May I help you?"

The pouch was forgotten. Not only was she the most gorgeous woman ever to walk the earth- she was _Italiana._ Surely, Duccio mused, this was fate. After years upon years of wanting and waiting, God had sent the perfect angel to answer his prayers.

When he recovered his wits enough to speak, Duccio laughed nervously. "_Di niente, madonna. Il bambino _and I were simply playing a…" His eyes drifting to the boy grabbing the woman's skirts, "…little game."

"I see."

He instructed his stare to remain on her face when she talked, but it didn't stay long. The further the silence between them stretched, the more intricately he studied her round, luscious, marvelously cupped-

"Well, if there's nothing else you need, I'd best get back to work." She turned coldly, business-like as she bid him farewell.

Yet nothing had ever made him feel so warm. For the next few days, Duccio could think of nothing but her; he needed to know her better.

Every minute of every hour, he imagined her curling copper locks, her perfect lips, her pale skin…and her eyes. He could lose himself forever in her eyes. _Dio, _where had she been all his life? All the other women he'd ever seen, even the courtesans of Rome- no one had ever appeared so attractive.

He learned her name through the little thief who'd introduced them. Duccio found the brats that seemed to live outside her shop to be most cooperative when he brought treats. For a handful of stale _tabriz, _he acquired her hand mirror, which he later returned hoping for a reward. Unfortunately (for _her, _Duccio reminded himself), she left him with a brief thank-you and a door in the face.

Duccio had believed that afternoon on the docks to be his lucky break. There she was, all alone, not running any errands, not reading or writing- just standing. Immediately he'd swooped in, charms rolling off his sleeves. Surely he could make her see how divine their meeting was, how obviously preordained.

And then…the unthinkable.

When Duccio had seen Ezio Auditore last, he had been in possession of a few of the Lucan's teeth. Constantinople and Rome were so far apart- how had Ezio managed to travel so quickly? If Duccio hadn't known better, he would have assumed Ezio was following him, his own personal _diavolo _until the day he died.

But then Ezio had said her name. He knew her as well! Well, now the hunt is on, old rival, Duccio thought when he'd caught his breath. And yet…

As Duccio watched them now from his perch on the well, half leaning, half lying on its cold stones, he noticed that Ezio hadn't complimented her once. He hadn't praised her shining beauty, hadn't sung of her auburn hair or supple skin. In fact, they almost seemed as familiar as brother and sister.

The old Lucan took another sip from his flask, never taking his eyes off Sofia. Ezio seemed not to care, but… he saw the looks she gave him. He noticed the way her eyes grew large when he looked away, the way her cheeks flushed when he spoke (the same way Cristina's had thirty-five years ago). Duccio was not jealous of the admiration Sofia looked at him with, or the way he pretended not to notice her mystified stare, as though he were a riddle she was dying to know the answer to.

Their walk was reaching its end. Sofia and Ezio were drawing closer to his well, and Duccio marked this by taking another swig of alcohol. By now his mind was loopy and his fingers tingled. He slumped against the well's base, bottle falling loose from his fingers.

Maybe he slept… Duccio couldn't remember. Things went dim for a while, and then suddenly there was a purring in his ear. When the world became clear, a stray cat was curled beside him, licking his ears.

Had he the energy, Duccio would have shooed the animal away. Instead, he merely confided in it. It felt good to tell someone his troubles, even if it was a feline who listened.

"Why does he get everything he wants?" Duccio asked the cat, who responded with a fervent lick to his right earlobe, "I spend days trying to woo Sofia, and he gets her in one afternoon! Cristina never even _looked _at me, but within an hour of meeting him they'd fallen in love."

The cat could not answer his worldly woes, and so kept to purring quietly.

"How does he do it? What does he have that I don't? Notoriety?"

"Try 'respect'."

Duccio's head snapped to his left, alarming the cat beside him. Standing over him, blocking out the moonlight was none other than the devil himself. But this time Duccio was too exhausted to run.

"Duccio," Ezio inhaled, leaning back on his haunches as he brought himself down to the Lucan's height, "You treat people like wine bottles to be thrown away when emptied."

"I am not in the mood for you lectures, Auditore," Duccio grumbled, and Ezio did not answer.

However, the Assassin did not leave. Finally, Duccio continued his thought:

"Look at me," He said, "an old, lonely, bitter man. Are you happy, Ezio? Are you happy that now you have everything, and I am forced to scramble for my food every morning and drink myself to sleep every night? What more can you take from me?"

Ezio replied threateningly, "I have taken nothing from you that you have not already given away."

"Ha!" The Lucan snorted. "You hate me! Admit it, even the great Ezio Auditore is not immune to scorn."

"What you did to Claudia-"

"Claudia! Do you think I cared about _her? _It was _Cristina_ I wanted!"

Ezio raised his eyebrows, allowing the childish exclamation to waft through the air. Duccio's voice shook as he proceeded to confess:

"I wanted Cristina then, just like I want Sofia now! And because I want her, you come and take her away like some damned toy!"

"She is not an object to be traded, Duccio," Ezio's tone had changed. It was no longer threatening or angry, but calming. "She is a human being, and must be treated as such."

Duccio gave a grunt of disdain. When Ezio did not elaborate, Duccio's hand groped around for his bottle, hoping to fall into a deeper slumber that the Assassin's self-righteousness could not penetrate.

"Duccio…" Ezio grabbed his wrist, preventing the man from drowning himself in wine. "We have grown together, from furious boys to resentful old men. You are an adult now, and I will not tell you what to do-"

"Then stop talking like my _padre,_" Duccio sneered, "Although I'm sure yours must be proud of what a preacher his son has become."

Ezio sighed. For a moment, he looked as though he might hurt the younger man, but in the end decided against it. Instead, he climbed back to his feet. Duccio found he regretted his words almost instantly.

The Assassin made to leave, muttering a simple 'goodbye, Duccio' as he exited. But to the surprise of both, the Lucan grabbed his robes.

"No!"

Ezio raised an eyebrow at the look of helplessness Duccio gave him, but halted just the same.

Duccio swallowed, and suddenly his eyes were wet. His throat tightened, choking his words as he mumbled:

"Don't go."

It very much surprised him how much he sounded like a child. Duccio's head was murky and hot, and he felt feverish on the inside. However, Ezio sat back down and watched him with tired eyes.

Tears rolled down Duccio's cheeks as he whispered, "I don't want to die alone."

And that was how it ended. Duccio awoke the next morning with his bottle mysteriously gone, and a small pouch of _akce _by his side. Pity money, he guessed. He got up and stumbled around in the blinding daylight, wondering where Ezio had gone. He didn't remember him leaving.

Duccio never saw Sofia again after that night, but he wasn't bitter. Whenever the Lucan thought of Sofia, he thought of Ezio's lecture. What a load of rubbish, he told himself as he kicked the cat that had begun to follow him around. Duccio decided he wouldn't take Ezio's pity or his coin. He threw them both into the sea the first chance he got, and hopped on a boat back to Rome.

And nine years later, as Duccio lay in the alley, tunic wet with froth and arms shaking uncontrollably, he did not feel alone. When his heart finally stopped, he could still feel Ezio Auditore sitting next to him, watching over him as he fell to his final rest.

And knowing that his greatest rival had been his greatest friend was a bittersweet revelation indeed.


	23. Dottore

They are pests, all of them. They sneak through the alleyways by night; they strut through the streets by day. A bunch of arrogant pests, they are.

And it is not just fear they spread. No, these vermin carry _disease_; it hangs above their little heads in clouds. They move in packs, always smiling as they corner another helpless victim and rob him of his money, his faith, his marriage, and his health.

This goes on for years, and Cesare Borgia sees no reason for it to stop. In fact, the act almost seems encouraged. Often he sees spineless men run to the devils, begging for them to take him in and show him compassion. And the girls would giggle, no words leaving their lips.

They are tumors, bloated sacs of flesh that weigh down Rome's progress and sicken its people. And as any good doctor knows, the only true way to cure a tumor is to cut it out.

Malfatto is thinking this as he preps his syringe, popping the long needle in and out of place until toxin is dribbling down his glove. The sun has long since set, but the slums still buzz with life. Contrary to the labels society has given him (serial killer, murderer, _monster), _Malfatto does not despise life: he embraces it. He is a doctor; such is his duty.

He can hear their laughter even now. It is bubbly and distorted, and they are stumbling. Malfatto guesses that they are drunk. He leans around his corner, sticking to the shadows. The whores don't even see him. They are too busy leaning into each other and spitting hiccups. Their faces are beautifully flushed, their hair is half undone, and the revealed flesh of their bodies is too inviting for Malfatto to back away from, despite the ease of the takings.

One of the girls is singing. The doctor doubts that anyone else hears or cares about her half-garbled song, but still the young woman's voice carries a melody well. Her lungs are strong, and she possesses true talent. Malfatto wonders briefly, as he falls into step behind the two, if her friends and family know of her gift.

They walk for a few minutes in silence as the wine begins to take effect on the courtesans' motor controls. They stagger about, each near collapsing from the other's weight. They are fortunate that it is he who found them, rather than a rowdy gang of the Cento Ochi. He is likely to be more… forgiving.

The singing girl asks a question, but her partner ignores her. It seems they are lost. Malfatto is almost repulsed by how exposed his victims are, how little of a chance they have. Pity, such a pity.

Realizing that there is no point in prolonging the façade, Malfatto picks up his pace. Soon the women sense his presence and turn, eyes misty with drink.

"_Dottore," _The melodious one purrs, running a few fingers through her light hair, "Would you help a few lost kittens to their homes?"

Malfatto stays silent, examining his pickings from behind his mask. Her cheeks darken to match her lips and her tiny hands crawl across his chest. The other courtesan seems less open, however. She is studying Malfatto with a terrible sense of recognition, as though she knows something is wrong.

The doctor is disgusted. She thinks he is the victim, another host to suck on, while in his hand the needle sits and waits for its turn.

Her fingertips tap against the beak of his mask, and a playful grin splits her mouth. "Why hide your pretty face, _dottore?" _

Malfatto's dark glove shoots up, latching onto the girl's wrist. Her eyes widen and for a moment she registers shock. But then her instincts give way to the haze of alcohol and her smile returns. She comes along willingly as the doctor turns away, leading the two lambs to their slaughter.

"Lisa?" The hesitant one is calling from a distance, "Come back, Lisa."

"Why?" The mirthful Lisa replies with a cheerful giggle, "I will be fine! I am with a doctor!"

Malfatto pauses, waiting to see how Lisa's guardian will react. The older woman is afraid, but too drunk to know why. Her dark hair frames her face pleasingly, although Malfatto already understands that Lisa is the prettier of the two.

"…Bene," She answers finally, and begins to leave.

Soon they are around his corner and away from view. Lisa is barely on her feet, and she is trembling with laughter. It does not matter to the doctor whether or not the smart one is watching; he knows he's already won.

Malfatto takes Lisa's other wrist and brings them to her front. The girl smirks up at him as he backs her up against the wall, her pink tongue brushing her lips. With the fullness of his frame against hers, Malfatto realizes that she is such a tiny being, so petite and fragile. Almost like a flower.

"I don't work for free," She says, and he allows her to fiddle with the straps of his mask, "but I can make an exception for a healer."

The beak falls away, releasing the scent of mint and myrrh onto the breeze. Lisa's soft expression hardens and her jaw drops. He feels her tensing beneath him as her mistake begins to dawn.

Because his is not the handsome face she was expecting.

But it is too late for her. Malfatto attacks her jaw with his, taking advantage of her surprise. She cries out in fear and pain, and he bites her tongue. He wants to drain all the anxiety and panic from her and experience it himself, yet he feels nothing. Lisa is struggling, but her shouts are muffled and her sluggish limbs betray her.

"Lisa?" The cautious one is here, and Malfatto hears her gasp. He tears himself from the younger girl's mouth and she falls back, panting for breath.

He turns suddenly, syringe already loaded. When Lisa's guardian sees his scarred face, the color leaves her. She remembers now why instinct told her to run away.

But he is fast, and she is confused. The older woman is screaming as he plunges the needle into her back, watching it as it erupts through the skin of her chest. Her shriek ends immediately, but her eyes continue to stare at him, blinking in surprise.

Malfatto quickly removes his syringe, careful not to waste any poison on such a weak subject. He flings the dying body around the corner and is beside Lisa in an instant.

"Oh god," she mouths, paling at the sight he shows her, "M-M-Mona?"

The doctor straddles the girl before she reacts, but her astonishment threatens to take her before he can. Her lips are numb, not luscious and twisting as they were before, and she barely fights him at all as he brutally kisses her. The girl's legs fail and she begins to slide. Malfatto releases her wrists and wraps his arms around her waist. He hugs her to him like a doll and the two of them sink to the ground.

Her eyes are large and blue, like pools of seawater. His glove is at the base of her neck, and he is admiring the beautiful porcelain quality of her skin. She is not a woman, but a sculpture, a fake testament to life.

Lisa is staring at him as though expecting an answer. As he holds her, the courtesan whispers, "You…killed her?"

Malfatto withdraws his syringe satisfied with the amount of toxin he'd managed to save. Although there isn't much point in it, as the whore is drugged up enough.

She cries out softly as he slips the needle beneath her flesh, injecting the liquid slowly. Her hand flies to his, trying to push it away. But Malfatto's fingers slip between her own, and in the end she squeezes back.

When Lisa's agony finally reaches its peak, Malfatto procures his scissors. At first she responds to the cuts with hisses and moans, then later with screams. But once he has slit her wrists and thighs and her blood has fouled the air, she begins to cool. Malfatto enjoys the smell of it, rusty and sharp. He licks it, processing the coppery taste on his tongue. Why does his own blood not taste to bittersweet? Why is his pain not as beautiful?

Hours later, the courtesan is quiet. She does not wail, nor scream, nor cry. But Malfatto also knows that she will never sing, never laugh, nor smile. Her face, so soft and pink, is now waxy and white. The alley's stones are painted scarlet.

His hand curls behind her neck again, rubbing circles into the dead skin. Where before there was heat there is only ice. Where before she leaned into his touch, she only sits and bows her head. His other glove sneaks beneath her legs and he lifts her. The courtesan folds limply into his arms, such a small girl. Her hair, matted with blood, cascades down his shoulder.

Malfatto places her beside her companion, whose eyes are still wide and glassy with the shock of death. The two whores will be found in the morning that is soon to come. Malfatto gazes upon Lisa's corpse one last time, memorizing the breathtaking magnificence he has taken from her.

And then he replaces his mask because he is a doctor, and Rome has many other tumors that require treatment.


	24. Unlike his father

Florence, October 1531

A soft breeze rustled the papers as it entered through the window, carrying with it the scents of a dying summer. The parchment began to lift itself from the desk, but was cruelly stopped by a hand pinning it down. The offender's other hand grasped a quill and he continued to write, undisturbed by the paper's weak attempt at freedom.

Marcello had been working for hours. His fingers were stained with ink, his neck was sore, and his legs were moaning to be given a brief stretch. However, once the seventeen-year-old got started on a project, he found it difficult to stop. Unlike his sister, Marcello believed wholeheartedly in studying the market and reestablishing his family as a banking clan. Although he was forced to admit that at times it was a rather boring chore.

Dozens of abandoned chairs and desks littered the office. It was a lazy Monday afternoon, and most of the other accountants had either slept in or didn't plan on reporting to work at all. The silence did not bother him, though. In fact it was nice. Marcello wished he could get a working environment like this every day.

He proceeded to write, transcribing letter after letter, pamphlet after pamphlet, turning more pages than he cared to count. Marcello would likely have studied forever, had the slight knocking from across the room not captured his attention.

"'Cello?" Marcello looked up to find his sister leaning in the door frame, squinting into the empty hall to find his form amidst the mess, "_Dio, _how long have you been here?"

"Flavia," He nodded, gesturing to his desk. The young woman approached and took her seat across from him, sparing the papers a disdainful glance. She allowed her brother to read in silence for a few more minutes, but he interrupted it.

"So," He announced to the almost vacant chamber, not taking his nose out of his book, "I assume you've finished with Mother's chores and have come to bother me."

Flavia smiled and lifted a small canvas bag that Marcello had failed to notice, "Mother gave me more florins than I needed, so I figured..."

Marcello looked up, his face a tight frown. "Flavia..."

"What?" The girl replied defensively, "I got you something, too!"

The younger teen groaned, "We need all the money we have. It will not do to have you wasting it on some petty dress or tart."

"Look who's talking!" Flavia countered, throwing a hand at her brother's studies, "Where did all the _monetta _for those texts come from?"

"Flavia," Marcello repeated in a firm tone, his green eyes narrowed, "These came from Mother's library."

The elder Auditore fell silent, biting her lip. After a while, she spoke up in a tiny voice:

"Ciro brought me flowers."

Marcello raised his eyebrows as he scribbled something onto a nearby piece of parchment, "And I'm sure they are beautiful. Is Ciro last week's courtier, or did you just meet him?"

Flavia chuckled, "No, we met days ago. He seems nice."

"They all seem nice." Marcello muttered darkly.

"Well, I'm sure the flowers will fetch a pretty penny back home," Flavia declared, "does that make you happy?"

He seemed almost surprised, "You're going to sell them?"

She nodded, "_Si, _along with the bottles of wine Giralamo gave me yesterday."

Marcello laughed and set down his quill, leaning back in his chair to look his sister in the eye, "Do you keep any of your lovers' gifts?"

"Admirers," Flavia corrected, folding her arms, "and I kept the necklace Bartolo gave me last month. See?"

Marcello had to admit that the small ruby looked fabulous against the pale skin of his sister's neck, and it accentuated her eyes marvelously. There were times when Marcello appreciated the fact that Flavia possessed true beauty, and they were few and far between. But he couldn't help a sigh as he replied, "Yes, I see."

A calm silence settled over the two as Marcello fell back into his work and Flavia daydreamed, happy to be with her family after a long morning spent shopping. However, the topic of their last conversation still floated about in Marcello's mind, and after a while he gave voice to the worries that had plagued him those past few weeks:

"Flavia, doesn't it bother you how much attention you get from men?"

Flavia laughed at him, and Marcello's cheeks flushed. He hadn't meant to sound so pointed or nosy...

"You mean how many try to court me on a daily basis?" She clarified, pausing a moment to think. "I suppose it's flattering, but I don't care much for it. I'll know when I find the man I'll love."

"But don't you think it's..." Marcello hesitated, bringing his quill's feather closer to his mouth in concentration, "...dangerous?"

"Dangerous?" Flavia repeated, eyebrow raised, "Goodness, Marcello. At the rate you worry about me, you'll be tired as Papa by the time you're twenty!"

She'd meant it as a joke, but Marcello stared at her with astonishment, his eyes wide. No one brought up Ezio's death like that.

"Forgive me," Flavia murmured quickly, paling, "I didn't-"

"It's alright," Marcello interrupted, "I know."

"_Padre_ was a good man, 'Cello," She persisted, leaning forward in her seat. "You're a lot like him, and that's fine. But the poor fellow practically killed himself over our safety-."

"He was just being our father," Marcello defended softly, "He wanted to protect us."

Flavia clearly had an argument, but she held herself back. She merely relaxed, nodding. Silence returned, but it was not nearly as comfortable this time around. The Auditore siblings had dearly loved their Papa, but it was true the man was overprotective. In the short decade they'd known him, he had hardly allowed them to go anywhere alone. Ezio Auditore was a mysterious figure to both of his children, and their mother was no help on the subject.

When the two of them had passed the age of sixteen, Sofia finally told them of their heritage. Flavia had accepted it with hard determination and immediately set out to Monteriggioni with their aunt, eager to see the spot of Assassin prevalence for three decades. She dreamed of uncovering the secrets of the Assassin Brotherhood for herself, and told her mother as such. But to the girl's dismay, Sofia explained that Ezio's deepest desire was that his son and daughter stay away from his life. That they repel the Assassins and all things related.

That had been good enough for Marcello. He listened closely when his aunt spoke of her father's execution, and the trials her brother endured for forty years afterwards. Marcello told himself he did not have the strength for such ordeals, but _Zia _Claudia believed otherwise. Flavia, however, had not taken to Ezio's decision with open arms. At first she had been disappointed, but later she had been angry. Angry that her own father had kept this secret, and even in death attempted to deny it.

Marcello's musings were disrupted when Flavia rose and cleared her throat.

"I'm going to look around town for a while longer," She said, "I'll meet you back here at sunset, and we'll go home."

Marcello nodded dumbly as his sister delivered a quick peck on his cheek and headed for the door.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"You're leaving?"

The young man made a point of ignoring his elder's question and instead gathered his papers into a book and slid the objects into his bag.

"Well, how can you be leaving already?" The old banker almost threatened, his voice was so thick with agitation. Marcello purposefully strode across the room with his sack on his shoulders, leaving the other man behind him.

"Auditore!" Marcello halted, but didn't turn. He was not furious, but he was rather annoyed. Being seventeen, he had assumed that if anyone at this juncture was to be rude or childish, it was certainly his right. "Answer me! How can you leave when there is so much to be done?"

"I have been slaving away at that desk for four hours, _messere,_" Marcello said loudly, still facing the door. "Not a single _banchiere _showed up to help. Good-day." (banker)

He may have just lost his job to his insolence, but at that moment Marcello did not care. Something was gnawing at the pit of his stomach, and his fingers tingled. Flavia was supposed to meet with him, but so far she was twenty-two minutes and thirty-nine seconds late.

Marcello became very exact when he was nervous.

Once his feet crossed the bank's threshold and stepped into the street he picked up his pace. Something was wrong; he was sure of it. Flavia was rude, independent, a shameless flirt, and a terrible role model but she was almost _never _late.

Without even knowing where he was headed, Marcello broke into a run. He flung halfhearted apologies at the crowd as he barreled past them, nearly removing a monk's head with his satchel. His panicked frame drew a lot of stares, but no one offered to help. Marcello's heart pounded in his ears as he neared what he assumed to be his destination.

The Ponte Vecchio was even more spectacular in the waning sunlight. As Marcello pulled to a stop before the bridge's cobblestones, he perceived the splashing of the Arno beneath them. It was a long fall to the water.

"Get your hands off me!" The command drew his attention and Marcello paled significantly when he recognized his sister's voice. Just as he'd speculated, Flavia was in some form of trouble.

He drew closer, eyeing the scene with caution. Flavia was surrounded by a group of three boys around Marcello's age, each examining her with keen interest. One of the young men pulled back suddenly, rubbing his palm where Flavia had slapped it.

"Feisty little bitch, isn't she?" The gang agreed to his comment with low laughter, and the sound of it deeply sickened Marcello.

"If you just give us your purse, we'll be gone, _mia cara._" _(_my darling) Another of the thugs suggested with terrible sweetness.

Marcello could feel his sister's fury churning from across the road. The youngest Auditore knew it was upon him to act, but he hadn't a clue what he was expected to do. He was not a man of violence; he didn't even whip the family mule when it refused to pull the plow.

"Do _not,_" Flavia growled menacingly, "call me _cara!" _

She tried to lash out again, but this time one of the ruffians caught her wrist, and the group enjoyed another repulsive laugh. Flavia protested, thrashing about in an effort to regain her hand. It was slowly occurring to Marcello that they were toying with her; their real intent something far more sinister. And once the sun went down…

Hardly even aware of his actions, Marcello marched up to the cluster and announced: "Leave her alone."

There was a shocked silence as four heads turned to stare at him. Flavia's eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped. The thief who had snatched Flavia's arm released it, glaring at Marcello with an obvious loathing.

"You lost, _signore?_" He asked, the title a cruel mockery, "_Il Duomo _is that way. Better turn around and start walking."

"Marcello," Flavia's voice shook. The fear she had been trying so long so suppress finally tumbled out at the sight of her little brother, "get away from here."

"_E cosi carina!" _One of the thugs exclaimed, "The little boy trying to save his damsel in distress." (how cute)

"I said," Marcello repeated, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He was shaking. "Leave her alone."

Flavia shook her head, but she was largely ignored.

"Or what, _ragazzino?" _(little baby)

Their attention was shifting from Flavia to Marcello now, and they took even more interest in his canvas bag than in his sister's. Slowly, the group moved to surround him. Marcello took pride in his height as they inspected him, comforted by the fact that he was just as tall as their ringleader. However, he could not bring himself to participate in a fight, which was what his mind informed him would eventually happen. Sooner or later, one of them would throw a punch, and then the rest would start to beat him. But at least Flavia would be safe.

_Dio, _what was he talking about?

"Hey!" Flavia jeered, waving her arms, "_Luridi porci! _You stay away from him!" (dirty pigs)

It was clear the brutes intended to do no such thing. One of them poked Marcello's sack, peeking in at the books and papers that jutted out.

"What are you, a librarian?" He taunted, "You look enough like an old lady for the job, I suppose."

"_Ehi, amici, _if he's got enough money for books he must keep a nice coin-purse in there!"

And that was when everything went to hell.

Marcello did not hurl the first blow; it was Flavia. She had come from behind while they were prodding him and clubbed the first thug over the back of the head with her purse. The boy doubled over, crying out in pain. Flavia nailed him with a swift kick to the ribs, and the resounding crack outraged his companions. One of them was on her in a split second, striking her across the face with his fist. Marcello dropped his bag and joined the brawl, doing everything he could to draw the ruffians' attention away from his big sister.

The lot of them fought until the sun disappeared behind the Arno and dusk fell around them. Flavia was an Assassin in training, but her size and weight betrayed her. Marcello tried his hardest, but the best he could do was distract the others while Flavia attacked them from behind. He was far too hesitant, and he paid the price for it when the two of them were limping from the Ponte Vecchio, scared and beaten. They'd managed to keep their belongings, though the state of the items was questionable.

"Oh, Marcello," Flavia lamented, wiping her nose with her sleeve, "what are we going to do now?"

"We should go to _Zia_,_" _Marcello suggested, wincing as he took a step forward, "She can help us."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Claudia had never been more convinced she'd seen a ghost.

When she opened the door, before her stood a boy of seventeen years, his messy brown hair pulled behind him and his lip a bloodied mess. She had half a mind to demand why Ezio had decided wait seven years before visiting her, but it was her niece's voice that removed the glaze from her stare.

"_Zia!" _Flavia sounded near tears.

"You wretched children," Claudia shook her head, looking over the two sadly, "Come in, come in. Don't bleed to death on my floor."

The Auditore siblings settled into their aunt's foyer as she went off in search of medical equipment. Back when she herself had been an Assassin, Claudia had been taught a few modest ways to mend a wound, and her brother's children seemed more terrified than hurt.

"Alright," She sighed tiredly, tucking the medicine chest under her arm, "have a seat on the couch there and I'll see what I can do."

Marcello was certainly the worse for wear. His lip was torn and dried blood had turned the lower half of his face to a crusty pulp. As Claudia cleaned his mouth with a damp cloth, she took in the almost vacant expression her nephew wore, and how his pensive frown was missing. She'd been about to ask for an explanation when Flavia spoke up quietly:

"It's my fault, Claudia," The girl looked down, shame coloring her cheeks, "I was being…"

"There is no need to say more, _mia bambina,_" The old woman replied, wrinkled her nose at the smell staining her rag, "your father's temper got him into more trouble than I can recall when he was your age." Claudia hesitated, slightly puzzled. "However, I am surprised at you, Marcello. You've always been the rational one, since you were a small child."

Marcello split his lips to answer, but again Flavia took the initiative.

"Marcello is not to blame for any of this," She said, "I was in trouble and he came to help me."

"Apparently by allowing a donkey to practice kicking on his face," Claudia murmured more to herself than to the young adults before her as she rummaged through her box for a needle and thread.

"I am sorry, _Zia._" Marcello apologized softly, "I could not bring myself to hurt another."

At first Claudia had assumed his retort to be cynical, but when she turned back she saw the blankness in Marcello's eyes more boldly expressed. It saddened him that he could not defend himself. Not because he was physically unable, but because he could not stand the sight of pain.

The elder Auditore found herself at a loss. Only Ezio could have fathered such remarkably confusing children: here was a girl (who more or less reminded Claudia of herself) who would openly pick fights with anyone and who has the attentions of every handsome boy from _Venezia _to _Sicilia, _yet her mother was a librarian and a pacifist. And the son (whose father spent his entire life killing and arguing in political feuds) despite inheriting the strength and advantages of Ezio's body, wanted nothing more than to live in peace.

Claudia shook her head and smiled, "You two are such a mystery to your family. No boy could be less like his papa, and no girl like her mama."

The siblings sat still and allowed their aunt to treat their scrapes and bruises. As soon as the last bandage had been placed, Marcello rose from the sofa and bowed.

"_Grazie mile, Zia,_" He announced.

Claudia was unimpressed, "I assume you are staying the night?"

Flavia frowned, "Thank you, but we must return to the villa. Mother will worry if-"

"You are tired and hurt," Claudia interrupted sternly, "And it is getting late."

"But-" Marcello attempted unsuccessfully.

"I will notify your mother of your status. Now both of you change into some clean clothes and we'll eat dinner."

There was no arguing with Aunt Claudia.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Marcello hissed in pain when he felt pressure on his left thigh. The brief shock stirred him from his sleep, and he realized he must have rolled onto a sensitive mark. The young man blinked heavily and flipped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was no use; rest would not return for some time now.

But the bed was warm, and he was hesitant to leave it. Flavia had insisted he stay in the guest room, assuring him that she would sleep on the divan in the foyer. He had been reluctant to agree, but he gave in eventually. His leg took a real beating that afternoon, and sleeping crooked on a couch too small for his long legs would've been a challenge he wasn't up to.

However, the ceiling was not growing any more interesting. And so the young Auditore sat up and swung his feet over the side of the mattress, gingerly letting them touch the floor. Claudia kept every room neat, and he was easily able to find his way about even in the darkness.

Marcello followed the main hallway back to the entrance room. He halted suddenly when he heard a slight crackling sound, followed by the scent of smoke in his nostrils. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth up ahead…

For a moment, the seventeen-year-old truly believed it was his father. When Marcello was very little, he remembered that his papa would stay up in the sitting room at least once a week, staring into the flames. Sometimes his mother was there too, or there would be a book filled with strange writings, or even a stack of letters. But as Marcello got older and older, Father would sit alone. The first time it'd happened, Marcello raced down the stairs to curl up beside him like a happy kitten. Father had chuckled and ruffled his hair, allowing him to climb into his lap and stay awake for as long as he wanted. Marcello was usually asleep within the next few minutes, but those memories of his still glowed warmly.

Which was why Marcello bit his lip as he continued on. His father was dead, and he had left him behind.

When Marcello finally reached the fire's incubator, he was relieved to see it was not the ghost of his papa. Instead, Aunt Claudia sat in the decorated chair beside the settee and gazed into the flickering flames. He could make out Flavia's hair spilled over the couch cushions, reflecting the fire in their long brown locks. Claudia's hand was stroking them absently, and it seemed it had been for quite some time.

"Aunt?" Marcello asked tentatively, almost afraid to interrupted the blaze's crackling.

Claudia snapped out of her trance and looked up at her nephew with a frown.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

Marcello came closer, watching his sister sleep peacefully. "I could ask you the same."

Claudia sighed, removing her hand from Flavia's scalp and folding it into her lap. Marcello took her silence as permission to join her, and he took a spot beside his sibling's feet, which were bundled in blankets. They sat together for a while, and neither one said a word.

"You know," Marcello began gently, "my father used to get up in the middle of the night to stare into our hearth."

_Zia _laughed quietly, "That does not surprise me. My father did it, too." She paused and tilted her head back, staring dreamily at the ceiling. "I suppose it's an Auditore thing. When you get to be my age, I'm sure you'll take great interest in embers as well."

Marcello chuckled, and the restful hush returned. After a few minutes, Claudia turned to him.

"I hear you are an excellent banker." She commended in a blank tone of voice. Marcello did not know whether to be offended or complimented.

"_Si,_" He nodded. "I am skilled, more or less."

Much to his surprise, the old woman grinned. "_Bellissimo. _Then you are coming with me to Monteriggioni, yes?"

Marcello's eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. "What?"

"_Dio mio, _she hasn't told you?" Claudia's eyebrows shot up, "I leave next week. I invited your mother and sister along, but Sofia refused. Flavia was supposed to tell you, but apparently she has inherited your father's memory."

The youngest Auditore was still confused, "What do my accounting abilities have to do with Monteriggioni?"

Claudia sighed again and massaged her temple with her index finger, "Alright, I will explain. The Villa there has fallen into disuse since the attack many years ago. I have decided it's about time someone did something, so I'm going to take what's left of the family's money and put in some renovation work. However, the people there demand I stay and govern, being the only Auditore left in the bloodline. But I am not the young girl I used to be…"

"And you were hoping Flavia would take up the offer?"

"Of course not," Claudia scoffed, "I was hoping you would."

Marcello was at a loss for words. "Me?"

"_Naturalmente, _you." She replied, throwing a hand in his direction, "You're the one with the brain. Flavia's the one with the guts."

His gaze drifted down to his sister, blissfully ignorant of their discussion. After a few moments, Marcello asked:

"You really want me to assume control of Monteriggioni?"

"_Nipote,_" The old woman spoke gently and leaned towards him in her chair, "Your father ruled that city for almost three decades. The people would be thrilled to have you, and I have confidence that you will make a fine leader."

"But _Firenze…_" Marcello trailed off. His aunt smiled and shrugged.

"_Firenze _is where you were born. Nothing more, nothing less. She is not going anywhere."

Marcello thought for a long time after that. Ironically, he found the shifting and curling movements of the open fire soothed his mind and made it easier to settle. He had only ever been to Monteriggioni once, and that was for his father's funeral. From what he remembered, the city was small, miserable, and a wreck. But Claudia had lived there for twenty years, and the town she spoke of was wonderful and homely. Perhaps with a bit of encouragement and wise spending, it could be that way again…

"…I would like very much to move to Monteriggioni someday," Marcello said carefully, looking up at his _Zia _with a hopeful smile, "But I think it best I finish my training here, first."

"That is a fair decision," Claudia nodded in approval, "I shall take Flavia with me, then. And when you are ready, you will join us."

"What about Mother?" Marcello asked, "She does not want to come?"

"Sofia is an idealistic fool, but she has a kind heart. She will not deny her children their past, not even for Ezio."

Marcello tried not to think of that. Instead he only wondered, "When do we leave?"

Claudia's grin widened, "As soon as your sister wakes up, _caro._"


	25. Watching

Mohawk Valley, 1777

The forest was a quiet place, perfect for a game of hide-and-seek. However, the snow made it only too easy to discover where the children had concealed themselves, and so the activity was called off after only a few rounds.

Gathering sticks had been the next source of entertainment. The taller of the two youths had instigated the idea, persuading his sister that a duel with sharpened twigs would be grand indeed. Unfortunately, the girl had begun to complain only a few minutes in.

"Thomas," she whined, allowing her jagged branch to dip into the dirt beneath it, "I don't want to do this anymore."

Thomas paused and punished her with a withering glare, "What do you mean? We've only just started, and you aren't going to get a good quality saber if you don't sharpen it."

His sister then tossed her wooden saber on the ground and stamped her foot, "I don't want to fight with sabers! Why can't we go home and play society like we always do?"

The little boy let out a rattled sigh and returned to the business of whittling his stick, "Society is tedious and predictable, Bethany. You make yourself the mama, make me the papa, and make Dometian the babe."

Bethany placed her tiny hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue. The gesture did not satisfy her much because her big brother was no longer paying any attention. Unsure of what to do next, the little girl adjusted her bonnet and stood patiently while Thomas continued to shape his sword. She threatened to leave once or twice, but both children knew she would never find her way out of the woods.

After a few more minutes of quiet carving Thomas was finally ready for battle. He stood abruptly and tossed his saber from hand to hand, taking its weight with a broad grin.

"Bethany Primrose Lawdet!" He exclaimed in a deep voice, leveling his weapon at his sister menacingly, "I challenge you to a duel!"

"Thomas!" Bethany complained loudly, stamping her foot once more, "Enough! I will not participate!"

"Think wisely upon your words, wretched maiden," Thomas replied coolly, "or I shall think death by blade a most fitting end for you."

"I am going to tell Mama how cruel you've been!" The girl threatened, lip curling defiantly. "Then you'll wish you'd stopped." Thomas opened his mouth to answer, but an odd sound interrupted him.

A short distance behind the rival children, a twig snapped.

Silence engulfed the two quite suddenly. Indignation disappeared from Bethany's face and was replaced with cold fear. Thomas himself couldn't decide whether to turn and face their intruder or run back to the house.

Bethany's lips parted but no sound left them. Instead, her brother watched with interest as her eyes rose to rest on something towering behind him. For a few moments, the little girl simply stood there, stiller than she had ever been in her entire life.

Finally, Thomas could stand it no more. He whirled around and raised his sword with a hand he'd failed to notice was shaking.

It was a man that stood before him, tall and powerful. A hood hid his eyes, but did not hide the cut on his cheek nor the blood on his lips. His face was fine featured and young, but it carried a biting edge that sent shivers up Thomas' spine.

His coat was trimmed in blue, which informed Thomas that this intruder opposed the crown. However, the rest of his attire was strange and otherworldly, like the tattered state of his boots and the symbol that hung at his waist.

But it was the hatchet in his hand that frightened Thomas the most. A long piece of wood with an iron tip that dripped with blood. A few dots of the red liquid fell to the ground and painted the snow at the boy's feet.

Thomas understood then why Bethany looked so dumbstruck, as he himself could no longer summon the will to move. The stranger continued to watch them, silent as an eagle tracking its prey.

Out of sheer anxiety, the older child raised his stick. Thomas recognized the pistol that dangled from the man's belt, and hoped to discourage him from using it. He waved the saber around uselessly, praying the stalker would feel intimidated. At this motion, the intruder tilted his head curiously, almost like a dog.

Thomas tried to speak, tried to warn the newcomer off. But his tongue found no words, and his voice disobeyed him. Instead, he lifted his eyes to the man's face and waited to see what he would do next.

The bloodstained stranger stared at them for a few moments longer, then turned and disappeared into the forest. There was no way to tell how long he had been watching the two, but Thomas found himself gazing off into the woods for a long time before Bethany's cries reached his ears.


	26. Snowfall's gift

Masyaf

January 11th, 1165

The thoughts going through Umar's head at that moment were very simple. As his boots pounded away at the hardened earth and his muscles screamed at the uphill sprint, his mind was weighing the possibility of his wife having already passed. And what of the child? He had no frame of reference whatsoever. There was no one to say that both had survived- but there was also no one to say that they hadn't.

A young girl carrying a pot cried out as the Assassin nearly tossed her out of the way. There wasn't enough time. He never should have left.

Now all Umar could do was pray that it wasn't too late.

Masyaf fortress loomed into view through the heavy, overcast clouds. The twenty-one year old barely had time to breathe as he neared the gate and slowed his pace.

"There you are!"

Umar glanced up from his panting and was hastily greeted by his closest friend, who grabbed his arm and jerked him through the castle's gates.

"Come, Umar. We must hurry!"

As the two Assassins ran through Masyaf's halls, Umar managed to rasp out a few questions:

"How long has she been-?"

"It's been an hour, maybe two," Ahmad replied as a rafiq leapt back from their stampede. Umar sent him an apologetic look, but Ahmad's grip on his elbow reminded him of the urgency of their situation.

"No one was with her when it began…"

Umar shook himself. He did not need to hear the rest of that sentence.

Ahmad's rapidity allowed them no rest until the pair arrived at Umar's quarters. Outside the door to the chamber, Umar doubled up and coughed air through his burning lungs. Outside the fortress window, snow began to fall.

A few moments of peace passed as the two friends allowed their limbs some respite, but the air was suddenly cut through with an agonized scream.

Umar's bolted upright, fear seizing his heart. The Master Assassin immediately reached for the chamber's entrance, but Ahmad's hand stopped him.

"There is nothing you can do," he told him gently, yet his firm grip was less convincing.

Umar shook his head, and his voice trembled, "She's my _wife." _

"The maids are with her," Ahmad reasoned, looking his fellow hard in the eyes, "everything is going to be fine."

Another terrible scream, and Umar clenched his fists. But soon enough a different sound bounced from the halls of Masyaf: a baby's wail.

The door was open in almost the same instant, and Umar entered quickly.

The stench of fresh birth was everywhere. She lay on his bed, her light hair darkened with sweat. Blood stained the sheets, and the cluster of maidservants made it difficult for Umar to find the form of his wife beneath them.

Upon seeing him, the maids dispersed and made room for the baby's father. He went to the woman instantly, kneeling beside her and taking her trembling hand in his.

"Evelyn," Umar murmured, tears in his eyes for the first time he could recall, "Evelyn."

Slowly, her panting evened out and she turned to him with a shakily, her face still wrinkled with pain.

"Umar?"

The Assassin nodded, pressing her fingers to his lips over and over again, "I'm here, _hamudati, _I'm here." (my dear one)

Evelyn's smile reached her eyes and she relaxed. Her other pale hand raised itself to her husband's cheek and caressed it.

One of the servants approached, the crying child in her arms. She hastily handed it to Umar, who accepted it mutely.

"A boy, master."

Umar gazed down upon his son in fascination. The infant shrieked violently in his hold, but when he passed the babe to his wife it quieted.

She stared at the boy, wrapped round and round with bloody cloth, nestled in her bosom. For a few moments, the new parents only watched as their child slowly curled up and slept. Evelyn traced his tiny face with her fingertip.

"He has your nose…" She whispered to Umar, a hint of a giggle in her voice.

Umar grinned and brushed his son's mouth with his thumb, "And your lips."

Ahmad entered, watching the family with gentle eyes and a small smile. The maids came to him and he dismissed them. The Sofian then approached his best friend and his child, the former of whom was completely intoxicated by the latter's features.

Suddenly, Evelyn's breath hitched. Umar's eyes widened as her chest began to rise and fall frantically. Her jerking movements jostled the boy awake, and he began to cry again.

"Evelyn!" Umar shouted, more in shock than fear. He grabbed his wife's quaking hand, squeezing strongly.

Ahmad ran to retrieve the maids, but by that time Evelyn's eyes were glazed and her struggles were growing fainter.

"Umar…" Her voice was lower than a whisper. Her husband shook her when her lids started to fall. "Umar…"

"Don't speak," he hushed her, but on the inside he was breaking. Everything was happening so fast. His wife nodded, and tipped her head back, letting out a brief cry. Her body shuddered and her breathing was reduced to ragged gasps. Then, just as suddenly as they'd begun, her tremors ceased. Evelyn relaxed against the bed and sighed.

"I can see him, my love." Evelyn murmured, tears dropping down her cheeks. Her head turned to face his, but her eyes misted over with a vision only she could view.

"See whom?" Umar asked desperately.

His wife paused for a moment, and with a last smile she answered: "Our son…he who flies."

Outside, the snow grew thicker.


	27. Esta

May 3rd, 1461

Venice

When the moment came, Esta found it ironic that the first thing she thought of was him.

That man, that noble courtier, the tall one with the bright green eyes. His face was the only one she knew as her sisters lay her convulsing body on the bed. His hair, dark and curly beneath her fingertips, and his lips like a gentle breeze against her skin. He'd been young, only a year older than Esta herself, but he still carried some impressive stature.

As the agony of birth tore through her body, Esta recalled the day she met him. It had been many months ago, a year almost. She remembered the oppressive heat of summer. Esta and a few of the other girls sat in the bedroom on the upper floor, taking turns sticking their heads out the window when the wind called.

When Esta's turn came, she halted. A man- no, a boy- dressed in a light doublet approached the bordello nervously. Soon he was knocking on the door, and Esta was sent to answer it because she'd tried to hog the window to herself.

What was his name? Esta had to strain to recollect that little, nagging detail as her thighs reddened with blood. Had they even referred to each other with names, or had their correspondence been physical alone? No, he'd called her Esta. She knew this because she remembered how sweet it sounded to hear him say it.

Only a week after their meeting, the nobleman (Piero? Ciro?) returned with parchment, ink, and a bag of coins. Despite being only nineteen, the green-eyed boy knew the Madam's rules. He bowed swiftly to her and dropped the pouch into her hand. Only then did the matron nod her head in Esta's direction and the two lovers were allowed a room.

Esta sat on the bed, but Benito took his seat at the writing desk. He positioned himself to face his courtesan and then began to write. Esta chuckled and asked what wiles the paper had worked on him that she had not.

That evening Esta fell asleep listening to her patron as he recited a song of beauty just for her.

It happened, Esta reminded herself as the other girls wiped her forehead with damp rags, that Benito was very fond of poetry. However, his father frowned upon such uses of creative thinking, and so Benito would escape to his house of whores, where he could tap an unimaginable source of inspiration.

Benito told Esta it was her loveliness that enabled him to write. He sung endlessly of her chestnut hair and ruby eyes, and he never ceased to fashion another compliment for her pale skin. For two weeks he would come to compose his pieces of art and she would sit. Once he drew a portrait of her.

As with any man who hires a courtesan, there were nights where Benito did not want to think or write or sing. When he came to her upset, she took him to bed and held him. She listened as he complained about the other nobles, about the stupid Doge and his laws, about his ignorant father. Esta was a very good listener and Benito's temper was never easy to diffuse.

She thought he loved her.

Esta didn't want it to be true. She wanted it to be a joke, or a biological hiccup, or an accident. When the Matron told her that in half a year she would be a mother, Esta wanted to throw up.

But her self-humiliation was nothing compared to Benito's.

What had she expected? Esta asked herself as she arched her back, screaming with the pain of it. Would he be happy to hear of his child? Would he rejoice at the thought that he, an unwed teenager spoiled on his family's wealth, would now be a father?

When she told him, her eyes wide with anxiety and her cheeks flushed, he had been overcome with silence. Then he turned, gathered his papers and ink, and fled the room. Esta leaned out the window and yelled after him, begged him to come back. Her heart sank deeper with every step he took. But soon he was gone.

He abandoned her.

And yet, Esta thought now as the baby's wails pierced her ears, he had not left her alone.

The other girls had advised her to rid herself of Benito's gift before it became a nuisance. She would not be able to work well for months, there would be constant sickness and aching, and eating would become a regular chore. But when Esta sat before the bowl of steaming poison she found herself unable to drink it. Not because she couldn't kill Benito's abomination, but because she had been afraid. In the end, she was just as great a coward as he was, unable to face the consequences of her affair.

"Esta, Esta."

The Venetian courtesan slowly dragged herself from her memories, blinking the haze from her eyes. Her baby was crying; it wanted to be fed.

Amica passed the swaddled thing into its mother's numb arms.

"It is a girl."

Esta knew now why Benito's face had appeared in her mind as she gave birth. Her daughter carried his tuft of black hair on her head, and while the infant's lids squinted open for only a moment, Esta saw the bright green of their irises.

The next morning, Esta awoke beside her baby. She was beautiful, an angel born out of sin. Esta did not deserve her.

The Matron came when Esta was ready. She inspected the child and announced her healthy, but she wondered how the mother fared.

"A brothel is no place to raise a young girl." The Madam pointed out.

Again, one whore suggested sending the unwanted present back, and this time Esta nearly slapped her. However, it became clearer with each sleepless night that the infant could not stay. The bordello needed Esta, and the nameless babe took too much looking after, not to mention its constant need to feed.

A week later, Esta took her daughter outside. She bundled the girl very close to her, afraid even the slightest leaf could injure the precious baby in some way. Amica accompanied her as they walked through the streets of Venice.

The company was nice, but neither woman spoke. It was not until they reached the Basilica that Amica said:

"Leave her a name."

Esta frowned, asking what the older prostitute meant.

Amica looked sad, "I know what you intend to do, Esta."

"Then you understand that it is the right decision," Esta argued, a finger sneaking into her bundle where a tiny hand grabbed at it, "Look at her. She will never be one of us."

"But doesn't she deserve a mother? How can you justify leaving her here with only a nun and a handful of monks to raise her?"

"She is an angel. I want her to be reared by the disciples of god."

"So you will desert her, just like he deserted you."

Those words hurt. Esta realized she was much more like Benito than she dared admit. She laughed at the irony. They had been so deeply in love, and yet they were the worst parents in Italy. Both had been quick to run from each other, and even quicker to run from their blameless child.

That evening, a nun who had come out to sweep the basilica's back entrance discovered the little girl. The priestess rested her broom against the wall and picked up the hungry child. Her touch only made the young one wail louder and thrash, green eyes searching desperately for her mother's.

What the nun found curious was that there was a note clenched in the baby's fist. She pacified the girl, hushed her and kissed her forehead until the sobs subsided, then plucked the parchment from her hand.

The paper, which would become the only relic of the infant's past, displayed one word:

Rosa.


	28. Bureau spitting, pt 2

June, 1201

Syria

Masyaf fortress. A place of utter serenity where men of all walks of life could band together in one brotherhood and learn what it is to live. Indeed the castle almost seemed celestial itself, perched upon the mountain so far above the rest of the land.

In the last decade, many new faces had made themselves known within Masyaf's walls. These new recruits spent most of their days in silence, training both mind and spirit to take on the ways of the Hashashin.

Most of their days, at any rate.

Today was not one of those days.

"That will not work and you know it. You are no simpleton, Altair, so stop trying to be one."

The recruits flinched and attempted to return to their schedules of intense studying, but the spark of curiosity had been lit and a few stopped to poke their hands into the Grand Master's study.

To their great surprise, the angry waves of a child's wail pounced on their ears.

The Master sat at his desk before the study's great window, brow furrowed in concentration. Across from him the Master's second-in-command glared harshly. While the two Assassins stared at one another, a furious toddler stomped about the desk they shared, closely pursued by a light-skinned woman.

"How do you know that it will not work," The Master, a bearded man in his thirties with a pleasant, yet sharp face, said while folding his fingers, "if you have not tried it?"

His companion, an equally seasoned male lacking his left arm, pressed his tongue against his teeth to produce a sharp hissing sound.

"That is the stupidest argument I've ever heard. Where is your logic? Where is your proof that it will succeed?"

"And is there proof that it will fail for certain?"

Completely beyond the two men, the little boy cried on. The recruits looked on in amazement as their mentors focused entirely on the matter at hand, dispelling the child's screams as though they did not exist.

"There is plenty!" Insisted the one-armed man.

"Goodness," The woman huffed, wincing as the four-year-old's palm shoved itself in her face in violent protest to being held, "Let's all settle, shall we? We're only having a hypothetical discussion, no need to get prickly."

The Master's second-in-command scowled. A few calm moments passed as the child was finally cooed into submission.

"I am not 'prickly'." He muttered after a while.

The light-skinned lady approached the desk, the boy's head now slumped on her shoulder. She smiled tiredly and asked:

"Altair, you and Malik used to fight often in the past, is that correct?"

Altair snorted and Malik rolled his eyes.

"More than you know."

"Well, how did you surpass those misunderstandings before? Surely two pompous Assassins didn't let a little disagreement get in the way of their path to ultimate paradise, or something."

"Maria-" Altair began, extended a hand in his wife's direction, but was swiftly intercepted:

"Actually," Said Malik, the initial phases of a smile on his lips. "It has been a while since we tried that, hasn't it?"

The Master frowned, "No, Malik. I was never comfortable with it, and we are not as young as we used to be."

Maria blinked and adjusted the sleeping toddler in her arms.

"Pardon?"

"Come, Altair. Once more will not do you any harm, will it?" Malik's smile had now become a type of sneer. "And it's been so long…"

"No." He was adamant.

At this stage, the recruits began to whisper amongst themselves, and a few even leaned farther into the room. What could the Masters be referring to so secretively?

"Ah, pardon," Maria interjected nervously, "I feel I'm missing some crucial information."

"Forgive me, Maria," The Master's second-in-command turned to the woman, "before you and your husband were introduced, he and I had a very…" Malik paused and grinned deviously, "…special technique for relieving the tension between us."

"Special?" Maria repeated, beads of sweat wetting her forehead and sliding down her temples. "…Technique?"

"Indeed," Altair agreed, resting his forehead against his thumbs in an effort to hide his face, "It is not something I am proud of. Thus I never told you."

"However, it is something I enjoyed greatly," Malik continued, "And I'm certain if we could partake of it just one more time, all hostilities in my character would…" Again, the Master Assassin hesitated intentionally, "…simply vanish."

There was something about Malik's smile that Maria just was not comfortable with.

"If it will really bring peace, then I have no choice." Altair finally spoke, adding a sigh as an afterthought. "Let us begin, Malik."

"It would be my pleasure, friend."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Rauf balanced the blade across the width of his hands. He tipped it, first forwards, then back, then to the sides, then up. The equipment needed for that day's exercises were all perfectly maintained and ready for use.

So, the instructor asked himself as he stood alone in Masyaf's vast courtyard, where were all of the students?

-0-0-0-0-0-

It had been several minutes, but the amount of blood flowing to Maria's face still had not decreased, and she couldn't help feeling that her husband had lost much respect for her.

"W-what are you talking about? What do you mean?" She had asked in a panic when Altair began to remove his Grand Master's robes.

"Do not trouble yourself, love," Altair had answered dismissively.

Maria's urge to object surfaced after Malik removed his outer robes as well and the two stood in only plain, rank-less uniforms.

It was then that Altair procured paper and ink from the desk and distributed them to his companion. And for the next minute, they wrote in silence.

"Er, is that all?" Maria could not help squeaking out, almost afraid her anxiety had stirred the lightly snoring baby.

Altair looked up, eyebrow raised.

"You're just…writing?"

"Of course," The Master replied flatly, "What did you expect?"

And so even though quite some time had passed, the woman couldn't help wondering whether or not the burn in her cheeks would be permanent.

Meanwhile, the recruits of Masyaf watched eagerly. Coin purses had been procured and it wouldn't be much longer before bets were exchanged. If only the Assassins could have predicted what their Mentors were about to do next…

Maria cleared her throat, just as they'd instructed her to. She announced:

"Er, fifteen minutes have transpired."

"Very good," Altair set down his quill and inhaled. His spread of parchment was three-quarters filled with ink.

"Ready?" Malik asked in a vicious whisper.

For the first time that week, Altair smiled confidently.

"As always."

Malik's grin widened and the Assassin brought his paper to eye level. He let out a quick cough and then proceeded to read:

"It's been ten years, Altair. Despite all the hardships we've endured as brothers, I feel a large part of you has grown. Specifically, your hindquarters."

One recruit threatened to burst into loud and obnoxious laughter, but he was quickly disposed of by one of the other well-trained disciples of the Creed.

Altair soon responded with his own insult:

"I should have known we would find ourselves in this situation again some day, my old friend. I only thought you would have used the time between our meetings to bathe once or twice."

The sounds of hurried whispers and jingling coins floated up from the study's stairway.

And it was Malik's turn once more.

"I admire how you have assumed the role of Mentor to the Brotherhood. You take it upon yourself to train the _Assassiyun _of tomorrow. Very honorable."

Then he delivered, "Of course, I'd always suspected you preferred young men to prostitutes-"

Maria's back went rigid with this last affront, but Altair calmed her. However, he did give Malik a wary glare before continuing:

"It does not surprise me that your comebacks are so skillfully composed," Altair said, "You must have little else to do, sitting all alone in your library, stewing with more bitterness than a pot of herbs."

A fight almost broke out as one recruit was forced to fork over fifty coins to his fellow, but once again the breach was contained.

"You are so kind to these students, paying each one special heed. You act as though you are a father to all- and with the amount of nights you miss from your wife's bed, you might as well be."

"You are a fine one to speak of my wife's bed. Do you not long desperately to see it?"

"I have seen enough, _yadidi._ Enough to know that you do not even feel the decency to clean up after the mess you make spawning your children."

The papers were long forgotten, and Maria felt a touch of awe as her two closest friends engaged in deep-rooted, chaotic mud flinging. Though the words they spoke were vile, they seemed to love the thrills of turnabouts and comebacks. The barbs did not appear to affect either man.

"First you speak as though I am a lover of wenches, now you obsess over my wife. I feel if there is someone here overcome with lust, I am certainly gazing upon him."

Discontent began to rise among the recruits. The Masters were moving too fast, and occasionally they spoke so softly that their insults could not be heard, further distorting the lightning market.

The sun slid across the sky and gusts of wind from the desert curled around the study's grand window. It seemed as though nothing could shake the two from their discussion.

An hour in, Malik was panting.

"Ah, revenge. Surely you would know all about that, as it's all you've seen fit to accomplish in your life. So long as everyone who has wronged Altair Ibn La Ahad is dead, we may continue as we wish."

"Such bold words from someone who failed to avenge his own brother."

Silence of a different kind engulfed the hall. Malik was speechless. At first, Altair took this as victory and grinned smugly. But when his friend only continued to stare, the Master doubted.

For only a brief second, Malik's eyes clouded with pain.

"Gentlemen," Maria said gently, reaching out to touch the arms of both Assassins.

Altair and Malik turned to her, surprised. Then the Grand Master shook his head:

"I beg your forgiveness, Malik, I-"

"Do not, my friend," the Dai murmured, downcast, "I deserved to hear that."

"Look," Maria began again, her voice sincere, "while this has been very entertaining, I think it's time we called it a draw. You are both marvelously witty, but hurling cow dung at each other is hardly a productive way to spend the afternoon."

"You are right, of course." Altair agreed, his tone still heavy with guilt.

"Then let us put this argument behind us…" The Englishwoman smiled and patted them both, "And find something delicious to eat. That always perks me up."

Altair laughed and Malik couldn't help a small grin himself.

"You are such a fine woman, my love. One would never suspect the deadly swordsman who dwells within."

"I concur that a meal would do me good," Malik added, "Besides, I shall need the energy for when I am punishing those novices downstairs."

The married couple turned to the Dai with wide eyes.

"What?" Malik asked, brows raised. "Don't tell me you didn't notice. There have been novices all around this past hour, eavesdropping to their heart's content!"

Altair groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"Allah, they heard all the things we said…?"

"All that and more," Malik admitted mournfully, "but if it's any consolation, you are free to assist me in their torture."

"I would like that very much."


	29. Petruccio's adventure

June 27th, 1470

Florence, Italy

"Remember, Petruccio. We love you very much."

The seven-year-old regarded this comment with a raised brow as the door to his room (prison) swung shut.

Once again his mother had left him. Petruccio was a very resourceful young man, but not even he could escape the pits of boredom he found himself subjected to. What time was it, he thought. Noon? An hour after noon? Or was it still morning?

Petruccio sat up in his bed and threw the blanket from his lap. He was careful not to make a sound as he slipped from the mattress and his bare feet kissed the wood of the floor. The youngest Auditore knew better than his siblings just how keen Mother's senses were.

Eventually, the boy made his way to one of the many windows lining his prison. Petruccio leaned out of it and gazed heavenward. The sun is directly in the center of the sky, he thought, which means it must be the best time of day to be outside. If only he _could_…

The little one sighed and hung his head. His father had told him once that he had been born with a 'weak constitution'. These were words that Petruccio had come to loathe with passion. It was almost as if they formed a person, a companion for Petruccio to drag along his entire life: _no, Petruccio cannot play now, he's entertaining Weak Constituion. No messere, I don't need any help. I have Weak Constitution. We might as well purchase two- after all, Petruccio has that Weak Constitution to worry about. _

Petruccio growled and swung his arms about. He wouldn't let Weak Constitution hold him back any longer; he would break free no matter the consequence.

Petruccio Auditore was going to go outside.

Easier said than done, he thought to himself as he turned back to his bedroom door. If that door so much as creaked, Mother would be upstairs in an instant. And then he would receive a 'Lecture'. Neither could Petruccio rely on his siblings: once, he had entrusted Federico to take him to the market, and he ended up in Father's office no more than five minutes later.

And Father's 'Lectures' were even worse than Mother's.

The smallest Auditore put a finger to his lips and frowned. This would take determination; this would take skill and cunning. Quietly, he returned to the window and glanced down.

Many people walked past the _Palazzo Auditore _at high noon. The large square building was directly on the road to the market, and only a corner's turn from the church of _Santa Trinita. _Consequently, the sounds that rose from the road nestled comfortably in Petruccio's ears like a set of warm muffs: laughter, the clopping of horse hooves on cobblestone, clangs of a blacksmith's hammer, squawks of chickens and angry women alike, all sorts of new and interesting sounds. They made the seven-year-old smile.

And while he was smiling, Petruccio conceived a plan.

Only fifteen minutes later, the boy was free. As he dashed from his home street, he only hoped that the blankets wouldn't tear or get lost in the wind (they were his favorites).

It made him a tad uncomfortable, leaving his comfort zone so swiftly, but Petruccio knew it had to be done. If he hadn't left, he risked being seen by his mother or one of his siblings. The smallest Auditore acknowledged that he would have to go somewhere completely unfamiliar and then blend in. That was the trick to adventure, he told himself.

Petruccio could not run very far, to his dismay. His lungs burned after only a few short bursts, and he felt a cough scratch at his throat. The little one accepted his body's warning signs and slowed up, rubbing his right flank where a tight stitch had set in.

Soon he pulled to a stop and looked around. Indeed, Petruccio had succeeded in reaching an area unfamiliar. Gone were the clean roads and the giggles; now it was dirt, shabby walls and an unidentifiable stench that encircled the noble-boy. Petruccio shivered and gave a little sneeze. Rubbing his nose, he hoped fervently that Weak Constitution had not followed him.

For lack of a better option, the child elected to keep walking forward. He adopted a steady pace; dodging the few passersby he met in the mysteriously narrow road. Despite the weird smell, the little Auditore's content smile had returned when suddenly he was knocked to the ground.

"_Ehi! _Watch it!"

When Petruccio sat up, he felt very dizzy and needed to close his eyes. The voice that addressed him sounded young, not authoritative at all.

"Wait a moment…"

His vision finally shifted into focus and Petruccio stared up at a boy no older than him. The child wore a round cap that covered a majority of his forehead and all of his hair, save the few spiky stalks of wheat that jutted from under it. His eyes, which were quickly bringing themselves close Petruccio's own, were a grey shade of blue; they reminded Petruccio of rainwater.

"Are you alright, kid? Can you hear me?"

Petruccio watched the boy for a moment longer, then nodded dumbly.

"Gianni?" Another voice, even more youthful than the previous. Petruccio lowered his gaze and found a second boy peeking from behind the other's legs. "What's happened?"

"Look, Luca," Gianni spoke gently, gesturing to Petruccio's sitting form, "He's another kid, just like us."

"Wow…" Luca gasped. A poorly dressed boy of five years, Luca bore no cap and as a result his auburn hair roamed free. His eyes were a dark brown, like tree bark.

"Look at his clothes, big brother!" Luca exclaimed, rushing forward to pinch and pull at Petruccio's tunic. "They're really pretty and soft."

"Are you a noble?" Gianni asked, now completely different than the urchin Petruccio had bumped into earlier. He seemed genuinely intrigued. "You don't get many silk undershirts around here."

Petruccio nodded again, still unable to find his voice.

"Why doesn't he talk, brother?" Luca wondered.

"I don't know. You can talk, can't you?"

Petruccio almost nodded, but corrected himself and replied: "_Si._"

"What's a noble doing down here?" Asked Luca, "Is there a festival today?"

"No, nothing like that," Petruccio answered meekly, "I was…running away."

"Running away?" Gianni repeated suspiciously. Petruccio prayed he wouldn't have to explain his handicap again, but fortunately Gianni's mistrust did not last long. "Well then, you'll want to get rid of those clothes. I could tell you were a noble from a mile off."

"Really? If I wore different clothes, I wouldn't be recognized?"

"'Course not," Gianni scoffed, "Those upper class sod-buckets never look at anything but what a person's wearing. Especially if you've got a hat, like mine," The boy tugged on his cap, "they'll never see you coming."

"Do you," Petruccio swallowed, "have any spare hats or clothes for me?"

Luca burst into laughter and Gianni chuckled meanly.

"Do we look like aristocrats?"

"I've been wearing the same trousers for five days!" Luca announced, shoving an open palm in Petruccio's face to emphasize the severity of this achievement. Petruccio wrinkled his nose as the unidentifiable stench made itself plentiful once more.

Gianni shook his head and smirked, "And even if I did have a change of clothes, I wouldn't give them to you."

"I understand." Petruccio said sadly.

"But you could come home with us, if you'd like." Luca suggested, "Couldn't he, big brother?"

"Of course not!" Gianni snapped, "We can barely even feed ourselves. We don't have space for another mouth, Luca."

"But he said he was runnin' away! What if the people he's running from catch him?"

"Then it's his fault; we're not getting involved."

"Please, big brother. It's so lonely when you go out and leave me!"

Something stirred in Petruccio as he watched the siblings bicker. Did they truly live like this? In this cramped, smelly alley wearing hats to survive and walking about in the same trousers for a week?

He'd wanted to escape Weak Constitution. Could it be that Weak Constitution was only trying to protect Petruccio from this? The outside, where a seven-year-old boy has to forage for food every day or starve?

"Remember, Petruccio. We love you very much."

That was what Mother had said before she closed the door.

The stirring increased in speed, and Petruccio felt his breath coming quicker and quicker.

Had anyone ever said as much to these boys?

"_Grazie mile!" _Petruccio interrupted the battle with a loud and breathless exclamation, "But I think I'll go to my own house. It was a pleasure meeting you."

Gianni and Luca seemed surprised, but Luca recovered quickly.

"_Arrivederci, _then!" He yelled, waving his hand.

Petruccio turned on his heel and ran. After a few minutes his lungs gave out, and this time the coughing bout was more severe. But by then he'd found the main road and was back on his way home.

The sun had fallen far from noon when Petruccio returned to the _Palazzo Auditore. _He was relieved to see that the rope of blankets he had used to escape his room still stood, and he used it to enter (much to the bewilderment of passersby).

His feet had only just touched the wood boards when the little Auditore perceived a creaking sound. Mother was coming!

Petruccio yanked the blankets out of the window with sweaty hands. Realizing he wouldn't have enough time to unknot them all, he tossed the rope under his bed and leapt quickly on top of the mattress.

Just as the door opened. The smallest Auditore wrenched his eyes shut and willed his heart to slow.

Luckily, Mother did not approach. But before she shut the entrance again, she muttered:

"Those silly boys and their tales. There is no rope hanging from Petruccio's window, and he's safely in bed…"

When Petruccio did fall asleep, which was shortly after lying down, he dreamed of the children he met in the alley.

And when Donna Auditore opened Petruccio's closet doors the next morning, she found two pairs of clothes missing.


End file.
